


Extra Innings

by tuesdaymidnight



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: All Human, Alternate Universe, Baseball, Coach Finstock is my favorite, Developing Relationship, Humor, Intrigue, M/M, babbling!Stiles, flangst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-08
Updated: 2012-12-17
Packaged: 2017-11-20 15:25:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 37,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/586845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tuesdaymidnight/pseuds/tuesdaymidnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles Stilinski is a minor league baseball catcher who just got promoted. Derek Hale is a star major league pitcher with a knee injury who just got sent down to the minors. Stiles is drawn to Derek, but the further invested he gets, the more questions arise. Why does team owner Chris Argent have it out for Derek? Why is Derek so emotionally constipated? And what the hell is Coach Finstock going on about? Minor league baseball has more intrigue than Stiles ever imagined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I have never played minor league baseball. I just played summer league softball when I was 9. They put me in right field. I picked dandelions. So this is all conjecture and Google. I mean no disrespect to the MLB or the Mets or Teen Wolf. Everything is made up other than the teams, and I started this when the Mets triple-A team was in Buffalo, so I'm sticking with that. Also, baseball lingo is full of sexual innuendo, and sometimes I can't help myself. I'm sorry. 
> 
> Thank you to [OnTheTurningAway](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ontheturningaway) for doing a ton of last minute editing and fixing all my mistakes and to coolbreeeze for helping to keep me in line.
> 
> Written because [this](http://tuesdaymidnight.tumblr.com/post/37475370377) is a thing that happened.

**Prologue**

_It wasn't a torn rotator cuff or tendonitis or a herniated disc. It wasn't even the bad hand he was dealt with a straight flush of family tragedy. In the end, it was partly an old knee injury that happened when he was defying his uncle by BMX riding as a teenager and partly the consequences of self-medicating his sorry ass from inside a whiskey bottle in lieu of physical therapy. In his defense, self-medicating was common among long-suffering Mets fans._

_He was the cliché of all clichés: the down on his luck, orphaned, heavy-drinking, professional ball player whose career-threatening injury knocked him down to the minor leagues. He could do the noble thing and fade away into obscurity. There would be no shame in it now, and if he were a smarter man he would have. But the truth was, he couldn't quit. He couldn't move on. He didn't have anything else or anyone to move on to._

_And that might have been the saddest thing of all._

* * * 

Stiles Stilinski hadn't needed Adderall since he was 16. After his mother died, something seemed to shift in him, forcing him to grow into maybe not quite an adult, but into a slightly wiser, more stoic, version of himself. He would think about his mom sometimes, trying to replay as many memories of her as he could, just to make sure he would never forget the way she laughed at her own jokes, or the way her perfume smelled, or the way she would always let Stiles win when they played checkers, or her undying love of the New York Mets in spite of having lived in California since she was 20 years old. It calmed him.

The forced maturity couldn't really be considered an upshot, because he would have cut off his arm for just one more day with her, but he did become able to focus on things like school work, to channel his mind and his energy instead of the way he used to just buzz around like a spastic bumblebee. He had gotten into college on an academic scholarship, but walked on to the baseball team. And now he had worked his way up to playing catcher in the triple-A affiliate of his beloved Mets. Okay, so it was mostly a lucky break because the starting catcher had needed knee surgery, and he was the cheapest option – truth be told, he probably would play for peanuts and Crackerjack – but still, he was suddenly one step removed from the majors.

He was practically crawling out of his skin as he walked into the clubhouse with his best friend and now teammate Scott McCall, the up and coming pitcher who was more likely than not just passing through the minors on his way to bigger and better things, and for a moment he wondered if this was the peak of his life.

“Can you believe this? The old team back together again, the dynamic duo, former state champion Beacon Hills Panthers, still kicking ass and taking names. First the minor leagues, next stop the world!”

“Finstock is gonna love you,” Scott said with a laugh.

“Do I detect a note of sarcasm? Why wouldn't he love me? I'm endearing!”

“He's the only person I know who rambles more than you.”

“I don't ramble.”

“Then what would you call it?”

“I tell witty, interesting anecdotes that only seem disconnected to people too stupid to keep up. No offense.”

Scott either didn't get the insult, which wouldn't have been terribly surprising, more so because he often tuned Stiles out than was actually of below average intelligence, or he was distracted by the three figures coming down the hallway in their direction.

“McCall,” a middle-aged man with graying hair at his temples called out to them before turning to the young woman and man walking with him. “Take Derek to my office, I'll only be a minute.”

“Okay, Dad- er, Mr. Argent,” the young woman replied with a blush. “Sorry, I'm not used to it yet.”

The man, presumably Mr. Argent, smiled indulgently at her before turning to Scott and Stiles.

“McCall, I just talked to top brass, and you're at the top of the list for the next call up.”

Scott's jaw dropped a little before he composed himself. “That's great news, sir. Thank you for letting me know.”

Stiles cleared his throat.

“Oh, right, this is the new catcher, Stiles Stilinski. We grew up together. Stiles, this is Chris Argent. He owns the team.”

Stiles stuck out his hand. “Pleasure to meet you, sir. I know you probably didn't have much of a say in my being here because that's not really your job. I mean, not that you don't have anything to do with the way the team is run, I just- well, thank you for the opportunity anyway.”

Chris Argent looked at Stiles as if he had a second head growing out of his neck, and with little more than a nod strode down the hallway.

Stiles would have been put off by the gesture, but he was too busy being starstruck to really care about the team owner.

“Do you know who that was?”

“Huh?” Scott answered, but was preoccupied with staring down the long corridor after the retreating figure of Mr. Argent's daughter.

“With the owner and his daughter. That was Derek Hale.”

“Who?”

“You're the worst. You know that, right? You're a neanderthal who can throw a ball with no appreciation for the sacred institution of which you are a part. Derek Hale? He was only the best closer in the Mets bullpen for the last eight years.”

“What? Then what's he doing here? I thought we were getting another starter?”

“Injury. Knee, I think. The statement the team made to the press was vague. I have a suspicion there was something else going on. A lot of bloggers think he has a drinking problem, maybe drugs, but he certainly doesn't look like he has any problems to me.”

Scott turned and raised an eyebrow at his friend.

“What? Can't I notice that the man looked healthy? Robust, even. You're looking at the owner's daughter like a hungry wolf. You have no room to talk.”

“I don't need to remind you to be careful.”

“You catch me giving Danny Mahealani a blow job in the locker room showers once junior year of high school, and you're never going to let me forget it.”

“I still have nightmares about it.”

“The fact that the image is still lurking in your subconscious just means you're intrigued. If you want to make out a little to see how it feels, I'm game, but it stays above the belt.”

Scott retaliated with a punch to Stiles' arm.

Stiles still had to pass a final physical examination and get the results of the mandatory blood work and piss test, but he suited up for practice as if he would be eligible for the next game.

He tried to introduce himself to his new teammates, but he wasn't surprised that most of them seemed lukewarm toward him. The thing about playing minor league ball was that there was a lot of movement. It was harder to bond with teammates when they were always moving up and down the ladder, being optioned and outrighted, called up or forgotten. There was a tension between the young players still hoping to make it in the majors and older players who couldn't accept that they were on the way down.

Not to mention, it always seemed to Stiles that other players were naturally suspicious of catchers. The observational skills it took to be a good catcher sometimes translated poorly to other situations.

Stiles hadn't really expected a warm reception anyway. This was just a job to most of these guys, and Stiles was just another co-worker who may or may not stick around. Playing a season of double-A ball in Binghamton had cured him of a lot of his expectations about playing a professional sport. He got used to the muffled sounds of his teammates on their phones in hotel rooms, arguing with their wives about money and about when they would be home next. He still had to substitute teach back home in the off season and live with his dad to make ends meet.

None of that mattered now, though, because when he stepped out onto the field for the first time, he had to blink away an inexplicable welling of tears that threatened to spill.

Stiles Stilinksi was never going to be a name anyone remembered. Kids weren't going to wear his jersey, and it wasn't just because he was a catcher. He wasn't going to be called up to the majors, and he knew it. He was going to be second banana to Scott for his whole life. He was perpetually Robin and never Batman. Number two and never number one.

But to play Triple-A ball was pretty damn good for the dorky kid from Beacon Hills. He had been drafted after finishing college based more on potential than anything else, but had a solid season with the double-A Mets affiliate. Scott, by contrast, had gone to the training camps after two years of college, was in his third season with the triple-A club and was now the star pitching ace. He had the conditioning and discipline for it now, something he lacked in high school and college, and it was only a matter of time before he was called up. Stiles knew he probably wouldn't even finish the season in the minors, even before Mr. Argent confirmed it.

Stiles never begrudged Scott his success. Well, he might have a little in high school, when the stands were full of college scouts almost every game and Scott was crowned homecoming king and then prom king. Stiles was always known as Scott's friend. The only reason the cool kids stopped shoving him into lockers sophomore year was because he became cool by association. But then Stiles hit a growth spurt and worked his ass off, and suddenly he was catching for one of the best high school teams in the state. He still ended high school as the sidekick, getting Scott's sorry ass through Chemistry and driving him home from parties when he drank too much, but he'd gained enough self-confidence to be okay with his role as the unsung hero.

“Bilinski?”

Stiles snapped back to attention when he saw a man who had manager written all over him jogging toward him.

“It's Stilinski, coach. People usually call me Stiles. I've thought about getting it legally changed, but then I'm no different from that guy in Ohio who changed his name to Optimus Prime, and he was arguably insane. Though maybe less insane than if he had chosen Megatron.”

“Bilinski!”

Stiles stopped.

“Can it. I called up a catcher, not a talking head. The role of Denis Leary has already been played.”

Stiles was so taken aback by the reference, he didn't have a retort ready until the coach was jogging away and Scott was dragging him over to the bullpen.

“You get used to him. He goes through the president's speech from Independence Day before the first playoff game every season. I'm pretty sure he's stuck in 1994.”

“Independence Day came out in '96.”

“Dude. Your mind is a disturbing place.”

Stiles shrugged. “Someone had to follow Bill Pullman's career.”

Stiles' first practice went well, all things considered. Once he shook off his initial nerves, knowing that people were watching him, sizing him up, he finally remembered that he did, in fact, actually know how to play baseball.

Pitchers and catchers had a unique relationship. The pitchers got both the glory and the blame, but Stiles sometimes felt like the catcher was grossly under-appreciated, except by those who truly understood the game. The catcher was the one who had to get along with at least 15 different pitchers, if not more. They had to understand each pitcher's strengths and weakness in terms of pitch selection. They also had to be familiar with their opponents' batters to be able to select pitch location and call the game, not to mention know the strike zone bias of every umpire in the league so they could frame to their benefit. They did research and watched a ton of footage in addition to all the physical training every player went through. Not to mention, crouching behind the plate for nine innings took a toll on the body. Most catchers’ careers ended because of the strain on their knees.

Stiles also took it upon himself to carry the extra burden of giving a running commentary during the game. The only bit of notoriety he managed to have in college was the record for being thrown out of the most games for trash talking. But hey, if he could exploit a psychological weakness in an opponent, well, it only took him two years before he'd finally reached that beautiful balance where he could get under their skin without causing a bench-clearing brawl.

After the batting coach insisted on seeing what he could do, which admittedly wasn't impressive, Stiles wandered back over to watch the pitchers finish up. A small crowd had gathered to watch, because they were now joined by Derek Hale. Stiles still couldn't believe Scott hadn't known the pitcher. Hale had entered the draft right out of high school and played a season and a half of triple-A ball before the Mets called him up. After trying him out as a starter for two seasons, where he had a respectable ERA, his ability to keep a cool head under pressure lead the pitching staff to try him out as a reliever. He flourished and racked up enough saves to make it into the top five in the franchise's history. He was notorious for his deep, unflappable scowl, and he had a cult following of fans who celebrated him for his apparent meanness.

“McCall!” the pitching coach shouted. “Watch Hale's form on his changeup. See his grip? Learn that grip.”

Stiles took it upon himself to also watch Hale's form very closely, for research purposes, of course, but he couldn't help but appreciate the way the jersey stretched across his massive shoulders and the way his ass flexed when he released the pitch. Baseball uniforms weren't universally flattering, but Derek Hale had the body the uniform designer clearly had in mind. Although he still had no idea what a pitcher of his caliber was doing in the minors, Stiles wasn't complaining about working with him one bit.

The pitching staff finally called it a day, and Scott came bounding over to Stiles, chatting to Derek about sliders and knuckleballs on his way. Derek looked stone-faced, but he was actually responding to Scott's questions in a low, rumbling voice that made Stiles' stomach flip a little.

Scott clamped his hand on Stiles' shoulder which was code for “I hope you had a good first day, but I'm not going to be a total dork and ask about it.”

Stiles responded with a shit-eating, I-can't-believe-this-is-happening grin and then reached out his hand toward Derek

“Stiles Stilinski. I'll be catching your balls.”

Derek looked up with narrowed eyes and looked down like he wasn't familiar with the social practice of shaking hands. For the second time that day, Stiles was denied a handshake. He briefly considered switching deodorants, but the way Derek was looking at him made his nervousness snap.

“Do you have some kind of OCD thing or something? Like a Howie Mandel kind of thing? I mean, I'm not judging. I'm the product of an adolescence jacked up on Adderall, so I get it, but otherwise I'm pretty sure the handshake has been a common practice since ancient Greece, not to mention a symbol of good sportsmanship.”

“The minimum age for farm teams is 16,” was Derek's response.

“I'm going to take that as a compliment to my youthful looks and not as an insult to my physique. I know catchers can be portly and the subject of mockery, but if you're worried, I did play four years of NCAA ball and did a tour in Binghamton. I have the mind of a fox and the reflexes of a cat.”

Of course, Derek took the opportunity to test Stiles' claim and lurched forward with a growl.

Stiles flinched.

All-in-all, it wasn't the best first impression, but Stiles couldn't help but notice the smirk on Derek Hale's famously stony face as he walked away.


	2. Chapter 2

It was the first game of his triple-A career and Stiles was bouncing off the walls. He felt like a teenager again and was almost wistful for his old Adderall prescription. 

Practice had been going well. Stiles already knew all of Scott's tricks, and they easily fell back into their old rhythm. Finstock actually praised Stiles a few times for his ability to pull pitches, which almost made up for the fact that he still called Stiles “Bilinski.” The manager was a weird guy, but he was a former journeyman catcher whose major league career lasted ten years. He knew the game, even if the rest of his mind was somewhere in the stratosphere. 

Stiles worked the most with Scott, but he had also built quick chemistry with Jackson Whittemore and, he could hardly believe it himself, Derek Hale. The other catchers who weren't on the DL, Isaac Lahey and Vernon Boyd, had complained about not being able to communicate well with the pitcher, that he seem to inherently distrust the way they called pitches, but Stiles hadn't had a problem with him at all. It was obvious the former major leaguer was rusty, and Stiles still didn't know the exact nature of his injury, but even Scott made an off-hand comment about how it looked like Stiles and Derek had been playing together since little league, too. Other than Hale's near-constant glaring, the complete lack of communication off the diamond, and what appeared to be a natural immunity to Stiles' wit, Stiles was actually keeping up with one of the best major league pitchers of the last decade.

Stiles barely slept the night before his first game, which he knew was stupid. He hadn't been this worked up since his first college start. Once he got on the field, he knew he'd be fine, but there was just always a lingering feeling of doubt in the back of his mind―that he wasn't good enough, that he should be using his English degree to teach The Great Gatsby to high school juniors instead of trying to live out some silly dream as a baseball player who moonlighted as a substitute teacher in the winter.

For the first time, he was making enough money so that he could actually stay rooted without having to go live with his dad over the summer or during the off season. He was finally starting to feel like an adult, like his own person, and he didn't want to screw it up. 

He was getting used to Buffalo. It was a far cry from California, and not just because of the horrible weather, but the season he spent in Binghamton had helped him adjust a little. The people were different, a little less laid back than Stiles was used to, and it seemed like life ran at a different pace and people were just concerned with different things. It reminded him of his mother and the stories she would tell him about her childhood growing up in New Jersey. When it was pretty obvious she was never going to get better, Stiles used to curl up next to her in her hospital bed and listen to her until she was too tired to go on. He wanted to know everything about her. He was grateful now for every minute he spent with her, when he could have been hanging out with his friends or spending more time on the field. To this day, his dad rarely spoke of her. 

She was the reason Stiles was a lifelong Mets fan. 

He drove to the stadium early, argued with the parking lot attendant that yes, he was a player, and yes, that entitled him to park in the player's lot. 

The place was practically deserted so early in the day, so he ended up walking around the stadium aimlessly, eventually climbing into the stands and up to the very back row of bleacher seats, looking down at the perfectly mowed field, the empty dugouts and the seats that would be filled with families and baseball fans that afternoon. 

That's where Scott found him.

“Still like high perches, I see.”

“What are you doing here so early? You actually got out of bed before noon?”

“You're not answering your phone. I put two and two together.” He sat down next to Stiles and put his hand on his shoulder. “You'll be fine.”

Sometimes Stiles forgot what a good friend Scott could be. 

“I know. I just― do you think she would have been disappointed in me?” His voice cracked.

“How could you even think that?”

“It's easy for you. I mean, I know you work at it, but you're oozing with this natural talent and you have this rocket arm and you're going to be huge, man. I can already see your name in lights on the jumbotron at Citi Field. And I just wonder if maybe she would have rather had you as a son and not me.”

“Dude. She used to put those stupid macaroni art things we did in daycare up on your fridge like they were masterpieces. You know she'd be sitting in the stands in a Stilinski jersey cheering her ass off and heckling the umpires like she did at our little league games before they told her to stop.”

“She would have, wouldn't she?”

“Yes. Now stop moping. You have to make me look good today.”

They went down to the field and warmed up a little. To save Stiles' knees for the game, they just tossed the ball back and forth, loosening up. Eventually the stadium started humming with life as ushers and vendors came into work. Then the rest of the team started trickling in and Stiles and Scott went to suit up. 

Stiles was still a ball of energy, sitting in front of his locker with his knee bouncing up and down. He could see Derek glancing at him out of the corner of his eye, and he knew there was some form of “if you don't sit still, I'll still you” lurking at his lips. But then Chris Argent came into the locker room and everyone's head turned. Argent's eyes went immediately to Derek, and he seemed surprised when he finally noticed there was an entire team in the locker room along with Derek Hale. 

The room had gone silent and everyone was staring at him, so he cleared his throat and said something vaguely encouraging about doing the organization proud and being proud of the record of good sportsmanship they maintained. It was unusual for a team owner to give a pep talk, but given coach's attempt at encouragement, it was probably the best they were going to get. 

Argent pulled Derek aside after he addressed the team and started talking to him animatedly, but it was too low for Stiles to hear. Whatever they were talking about was pretty much a one-sided conversation, and Derek was hanging his head down. He looked like a dog that had just been scolded, and Stiles didn't like it. 

“Does Argent always ride Derek so hard?” he hissed to Jackson, who was getting into uniform beside him.

Jackson snorted. “Something like that.”

Stiles was clearly getting nothing out of the southpaw and he knew Scott, one of the least observant people alive, would be useless, so he watched the interaction as best he could. Derek was nodding now, and he seemed to have recovered a little bit of his swagger. Derek looked like he was about to respond to Argent when Coach Finstock burst into the locker room. He started on a monologue about corn fields, in a massive failure of an attempt to channel Field of Dreams, that Stiles eventually tuned out. He glanced around the room and saw that everyone else seemed to be paying even less attention. When he peeked into the corner, Derek was standing alone.

As Finstock ended his diatribe, he turned right to Stiles.

“You'd better not choke, Bilinski.”

“Good pep talk, coach. If this doesn't work out, you should really consider a career in giving motivational speeches to juvenile delinquents.” The words slipped out without him realizing it. 

A few of his teammates snickered, but Coach just tilted his head and then stalked out of the locker room. 

As it turned out, Stiles didn't choke. He didn't play his best game ever, by any means, but he didn't get any errors and between Scott and Derek, who came in as relief in the middle of the eighth inning, the two pitchers racked up 10 strikeouts that Stiles partly attributed to his distraction techniques. There wasn't a rule that one _couldn't_ recite the script from _Return of the Jedi_ while batters were at the plate. The umpire actually complimented him on his Chewbacca impression after the game.

Stiles thought it was going to be a disaster after Derek walked his first batter, but then Derek relaxed and actually seemed to trust his pitching calls, and they went on to close the ninth out easily. It was surreal, almost as if Derek was depending on Stiles to be the brains of the operation, a fact which Stiles turned over and over in his head with disbelief. 

On offense, Stiles even got on base twice—the first time was because he had been struck by a wild pitch, but his third at bat resulted in an RBI.

Even better, they won the game. 

Stiles might have been a little overly enthusiastic afterward, but it was his first game in front of an attending crowd that hit four digits. As soon as he stepped off the field, his ability to focus lapsed and he got a spike of adrenaline. 

“We should go out! Celebrate!” he practically shouted at Scott.

But Scott had a dopey look in his eyes and Stiles knew that look. He had spoken of nothing but Allison Argent since he had finagled his way into meeting her the week prior, and he was already so far gone, it was a wonder he could remember his own name.

Stiles spun around to his nearest teammate, hoping to find a friendly face, but instead he was looking right in the face of a particular scowling relief pitcher.

“Cheer up, Charlie. You'll find that golden ticket someday.”

Derek opened his mouth as if he was about to ask what the fuck Stiles was talking about, but then Isaac clamped his hand on Stiles' shoulder and spun Stiles around. 

“Your first W means drinks and wings are on me. We've got two days before we leave for Pawtucket, so we're going to paint Buffalo red tonight.”

Stiles laughed, “Things I never thought I'd hear spoken seriously. But yeah, I'm totally in.”

When he turned back around to grab his gym bag, Derek was gone.

“How does he do that?” Stiles asked the empty space where Derek had just been and shook his head. 

He finished getting dressed and then walked with Isaac out of the locker room. 

“I'm just going to get an ice pack for my knee.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah, you know, squatting for two and half hours takes its toll. Once I ice them, they're good as new.”

“I'll text you directions to the bar.”

“Cool.”

Stiles trekked down the hall to the training room and was about to burst in, but he stopped in his tracks when he heard the low rumble of Derek's voice. He had a small ethical battle with himself, but he rationalized that he wasn't eavesdropping on purpose. He was just waiting his turn for the trainer, and if he happened to hear part of the conversation while standing pressed up against the wall so he was out of sight, well, that was just a coincidence. And he was only holding his breath to save the ozone layer from excessive carbon dioxide, or something. 

“It doesn't hurt that much anymore.” Stiles hadn't known the man all that long, but even he didn't believe that.

“It's not your knee I'm worried about, Derek.”

Stiles could imagine the glare Deaton got in return. 

“I'm fine.”

“There's no lie worse than the lie man tells to himself.”

“Look. I know you have the results of my tests. My triglycerides are down. I haven't touched the stuff in a month.” 

So Derek's poison of choice was alcohol and not narcotics. 

“Physical dependency has never been a concern of mine with you.”

Stiles couldn't hear Derek's reply.

“She would be proud of you, you know. For picking yourself back up.”

“I never should have been down in the first place.” 

“The burden you carry isn't yours. You couldn't have prevented any of it. I wish you could understand that it's not your fault. 

“But it is. If I had noticed sooner- I at least could have stopped him.”

“It's a dark road to go down, Derek.” 

There was a heavy silence in the training room, and Stiles suddenly felt stifled. 

“She mentioned you a few times. Said you kept her sane. Always treating her like a person when everyone else tried to handle her with kid gloves.” 

It was the longest string of sentences Stiles had heard Derek make. It only fueled his curiosity. The “she” was someone their trainer must have known, someone important to Derek that he lost. If Stiles knew anything, he knew the way people spoke about a loved one who died from a long-suffering illness. It was a club he would have cut off a limb not to be in, but it made him feel even more drawn to Derek Hale. 

After a thick pause, Deaton spoke, and Stiles could picture the trainer standing in front of Derek with his hands on his shoulders. “Remember. Baseball is a mental game. Your mind will defeat you long before your body gives out. You have friends here. You could have more.”

When Derek didn't respond, Stiles knew it was the end of the conversation, so he hurried around the corner so he could run into Derek on his way out instead of looking like a creeper who eavesdropped on a clearly private conversation.

After getting his knees iced, Stiles headed out to his car. When he checked his phone, he had two voicemails, one from his dad and one from his agent. He didn't actually need an agent, but he and Scott had gone to school with Lydia Martin and she insisted on representing both of them after she finished law school. She was probably the smartest person Stiles knew, although he had only ever admitted that to her once. She managed to finish her B.A in two years, finished at the top of her class in law school, and was now a sports agent who was already getting the reputation for being a total shark. She was also contemplating getting a PhD in dead languages, or something like that, just because she could. She had already orchestrated local spokesman gigs for Scott back in Beacon Hills, and it was only a matter of time before he was hawking Nike and Gatorade. She mostly just read Stiles' contract for him, but she secured him a few bonus opportunities he never would have thought about.

Her message was first. 

“Look Stilinski, they don't give the results for your little farm team here on the news, and I don't have time to Google, so you're going to have to call me back.” 

Stiles knew that she knew the results of the game. It was easier for her to play the mean agent than the supportive friend, but he heard the pride in her voice.

The message from his dad was at the other end of the spectrum. 

“You were right about the live stream, I listened to the whole game. The announcers seemed really impressed with your play, and I― I'm really, really proud of you, son. I wish I could have been there to see it.”

Stiles sat in his car for a minute and let the message sink in. His dad was all the family he had. Ever since his mom died, her side of the family slowly drifted away from them. It wasn't that his dad put pressure on him exactly, but there was always sort of a drive in Stiles to do well so his dad didn't think he was a screw up, to make sure he could see that he had been a good single parent. When Stiles messed up, which he did on occasion, that look of disappointment would cross his dad's face, and after the time he wrecked his car when he was 19, Stiles decided he never wanted to see it again. 

He couldn't help but beam a little at his dad's words. 

When Stiles got to the bar, he found out that with Isaac came Boyd, and with Boyd came Boyd's girlfriend Erica. As it turned out, she was half blond bombshell and half maneater, and Stiles loved her immediately.

Apparently the three of them were regulars at the bar, because the bartender insisted on coming over to their table to give Stiles the once over. She was a pretty little brunette with a bright smile and perky tits, and Stiles couldn't be less interested. He played along a little, flirted back when she put her hand on his arm and leaned into him. She was exactly the kind of girl Stiles knew existed in every small city. She would sleep with a ball player just to sleep with a ball player, and that's exactly what most players wanted. 

When Erica told him that she could get her number for him, Stiles politely declined. She gave him a curious look but didn't say anything. Instead the conversation turned toward baseball, and it was obvious Erica was as big of a baseball aficionado as the rest of them. She had played softball in college, though she insisted she wasn't living vicariously through Boyd.

Stiles settled into the conversation and had totally forgotten about the weirdness with the bartender. He got up to take a piss, but when he emerged from the men's room, Erica cornered him.

“Not that it makes any difference at all, and I swear I won't say a word, but satisfy my curiosity. Do you bat for the other team?”

“As far as I know, I haven't been traded in the last five minutes,” Stiles deadpanned. 

“You know what I meant.”

“The baseball euphemisms don't work when you're actually a baseball player.”

“Look, I know it's none of my business, and we just met. I also know that it has to be hard not being able to fully be yourself, and if you need a friend or someone to bitch to about all the heteronormative bullshit in professional sports, I'm here.”

“Well, thank you for that offer.” 

Stiles fidgeted, wondering if there was any way he could get out of this conversation without being outed, harassed, and demoted, but then Erica's face softened. 

“I get it. Sometimes the athlete crowd can be complete assholes about it, so you keep your trap shut and play along. Boyd would be cool with it. I know for a fact he would. But I have no problem keeping it a secret from him. I'm good at this. My parents still don't know my sister is a lesbian and she's been out to me for a decade.”

“You're not going to let this go, are you?”

“You've already confirmed it. You didn't tell me to fuck off and you didn't deny it. I'm guessing you've been out for a while to be so cool about it, but you're smart enough to know your environment.” 

“You would get along so well with my agent.”

“Oh?”

“She's a nosy bitch who knows everything, and I love her like the sister I never wanted.”

Erica barked out a laugh. “I won't breathe another word.”

Stiles nodded at her. But then she rolled her eyes and gave him a quick hug. She killed the sweetness of the moment by saying, “Now, I have to piss like you wouldn't believe,” and barreling into the ladies room. 

It was enough to fully win Stiles over. He went back to the table and when Erica joined them she didn't act any differently, but she stopped trying to pair Stiles up with the bartender and stopped side-eying him. Boyd and Isaac didn't seem to notice. 

The conversation eventually fell from baseball and the league to talking about their fellow teammates. Scott was universally well-liked, it seemed. Jackson ran hot and cold with everyone. And neither Isaac nor Boyd had any idea why Finstock had it in for Greenberg.

Curiosity finally got the better of Stiles and he had to ask, “so, answer me something, does Hale give everyone the death stare, or does he actually want to kill me?”

Boyd laughed. “A buddy of mine used to play with him in the majors. I'm pretty sure that when his mom told him to stop making that face or it would get stuck that way, he didn't listen. But he actually seems to like you! He's never said two words to me other than to complain about my catching.”

“I wouldn't say he actually talks to me. I told him to stop being such a sourpuss the other day, and I thought he was going to rip my throat out. If he likes me, I'd hate to see how he acts around people he doesn't like.”

Isaac shifted in his seat a little and didn't say anything.

“Was it something I said?”

“I don't know, I mean, I know I complain about his pitching and he's kind of an anti-social loner and I wouldn't want to meet him alone in a dark alley, but he has gone through some rough shit. I sort of feel bad for him.” 

“Does it have anything to do with why the Mets dropped him?” Stiles gave up the pretense of being casually interested. 

“I don't have any specifics, but I overheard Deaton and Argent arguing about it the other day. Argent wanted to give him random drug tests, but Deaton said if they did that, they'd have to change the testing policy for the entire team. I got the feeling that Deaton thought it was completely unnecessary.”

“Apparently he already goes to mandatory AA meetings,” Boyd added. “I heard it was a clause in his contract.”

“Oh my god, you guys are worse than a bunch of women when it comes to gossip.” 

Erica's emasculating complaint brought the conversation to an end, but Stiles knew he wouldn't be satisfied until he figured out what the deal was with Derek Hale.


	3. Chapter 3

The mystery of Derek Hale grew, and so did Stiles' obsession.

He tried not to be put off by the cold shoulder he got from the pitcher. Derek gave it to everyone. Some of his teammates chalked it up to Hale being a prima donna who thought he was too good to fraternize with mere minor leaguers, but that kind of talk was usually said in the context of guys blowing off steam. Derek's reputation preceded him and Stiles wasn't expecting to be friends with him, but it started happening more and more often that he would catch Derek's eye and they would share a look that went on far too long to be strictly innocent. They weren't like pitcher-catcher signaling moments. They were more like the non-verbal conversation you might have with some dude at a gay-friendly bar to reassure each other that you swing that way. Whenever Stiles tried to engage Derek in actual conversation, though, it was always terse answers and eye rolls. 

Derek Hale wasn't gay, of that Stiles was almost positive, but bisexuality remained a strong possibility.

It wasn't as if Stiles could ask. The unofficial “Don't Ask, Don't Tell” policy in professional sports was a code Stiles stuck to as if his life depended on it, and in a way, it probably did. Although he'd heard rumors about certain major league players via friends of friends, it was safer just to keep his mouth shut. He thought about asking Erica if she got any particular vibe from Derek, but that still kind of felt like crossing a line and he wasn't quite that desperate yet. 

Regardless of their rapport on a personal level, they still worked well together on the field which continued to shock Stiles. He wasn't about to ruin that by asking the wrong person about Derek's personal life and having it get back to Derek.

Instead, he spent a lot of time ogling Derek as surreptitiously as he could. It was always just a glance—a rippling back muscles here, a flexing of ab muscles there—and Stiles filled in the rest with his rather vivid imagination.

Of course, his curiosity wasn't solely piqued by wanting to get into Derek's pants.

Stiles tried to pester Scott to get as much information about Derek as he could. Derek wasn't exactly friendly with Scott, but he seemed slightly more relaxed around him than he did the rest of the team. Stiles didn't know if it was because they were both pitchers or because Scott reminded Derek of a younger version of himself, but Derek had taken Scott under his wing a little, giving him tips on his pitching but also explaining to him what it was like to play in the majors. The tips were usually accompanied by a look that said, “I can't believe you don't already know this,” but Scott was so wide-eyed and eager, he didn't let what seemed to be Derek's natural cynicism get to him.

Stiles had told Scott about the conversation he overheard Derek having with the trainer. All Stiles really got from it was that Derek felt guilty about something, that he lost a woman in his life he was close to, and that he thought he had his drinking under control. That didn't explain why the team owner seemed to have some kind of personal beef with him, and Stiles was sort of hoping Scott could help fill in some of the massive gaps with his increasing closeness to Allison Argent. 

Getting Scott's help wasn't going to be easy, though. Scott was never all that intellectually curious. He also had yet to master the fine art of subtlety, so asking him to be surreptitious was probably out. He was a good judge of character, though, and he seemed to really like Allison. Stiles didn't want to get in the way if Scott was actually serious about her, but he knew that Allison must know something. 

So on a rare night off, Scott had come over to play Xbox like they did when they were younger, and Stiles decided to just go for it. 

“I did some research, and I found out that the Argents apparently have a lot of bad blood with the Hales.” 

“What do you mean research?”

“You know Derek's uncle was a ball player, too. Played in the majors for years. It turns out that the owner of the last team he played on was curiously named Gerard Argent. I looked it up, and that's Chris's father.”

“Yeah, Allison's grandfather. She's mentioned him a few times. She's kind of creeped out by him.” 

“After seeing his picture on Wikipedia I would believe it.”

“He offered her a position with the Phillies, but she didn't feel right taking it because she barely knows him. And her dad really discouraged her from it.”

“Well, apparently creepy grandpa was instrumental in firing Peter at the peak of his career.”

“Firing him? It doesn't work that way.”

“Yeah, I know. But no other team picked up him after he was off the roster and there was no reason given.”

“Maybe he just retired.”

“Maybe he was forced to retire, if you catch my drift. Do you think you could ask Allison about it?”

“Seriously? I'm trying to sleep with her, dude. I can't just ask her why her grandfather fired some player.”

“Please? It's important.”

Stiles paused the game and turned toward Scott, making his best doe-eyed, pretty-please face. It had worked enough times in the past that Stiles wasn't above using it. Scott was a softie. 

“I can't believe I'm considering helping you with this. Why do you care so much?” 

“Technically, I'm an employee of Chris Argent, and if his family is involved in something scandalous, then it's in my rights to have full disclosure of said scandalous activity.”

Scott narrowed his eyes.

“Fine! I don't know! Something seems off! I'm naturally curious. My inquiring mind wants to know?”

“Or maybe you're trying to sleep with Derek.” 

Stiles sometimes forgot that Scott wasn't actually oblivious to everything going on around him. 

“What?! Me? Of course not. I mean, I think he's hot and all, but he dated that Victoria's Secret model a few years back, and I'm definitely lacking at least half of the T&A to compete with that. I mean, unless he bats switch. Am I even attractive to bi dudes? What do you think? If you were equal opportunity on the sexing front, would you go for a guy like me after you'd banged a Victoria's Secret model?”

“I can't even tell you how many things are wrong with that question.”

“Fine! I confess, if he showed me any sign at all that he might be interested in taking a ride on the Stiles train I would climb him like a tree. _But_ , I'm interested in more than my libido here. There's something going on with him. The way Argent talks to him, the thing with Deaton. You know they make him go to AA meetings? Like, it's supposedly a part of his contract.”

“They wouldn't do that.”

“Ask Allison!”

Scott actually pouted before saying, “I don't want to do anything to screw this up. I actually like her.”

“Okay, okay. You don't have to ask her directly, but can you at least keep your ears open for any shop talk that sounds off?”

“I guess.”

“Thanks. You sir, are a gentlemen and a scholar.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

Stiles was used to Scott missing his references, so he unpaused the game and proceeded to kick his ass in retribution. 

The thing was, Stiles was genuinely curious about Derek, regardless of the strange, potentially sexual signals he was getting from him. It could have been hearing the sense of defeat and guilt in his voice when he was talking to the team trainer, but there was just something about him that made Stiles want to help him. Stiles got the feeling that no one had helped Derek in a very long time.

One thing was certain—Derek's knee definitely still bothered him; he was still rusty coming off the surgery.

Stiles could at least work with that. It took literally giving himself a pep talk in the mirror that morning for him to work up enough nerve to ask Derek if he wanted to get some extra practice in. Of course, he partially did it under the guise of wanting more practice himself. If there was anything Stiles Stilinski knew about men, it was that they liked thinking they came up with good ideas themselves.

Stiles found Derek in the locker room after practice, shoving things into his gym bag haphazardly. 

“Derek?”

Derek looked up with scowl.

“I'm still having a little trouble with your cutter. I thought, maybe, you could give me some pointers? Or we could work on it a little more tomorrow?”

Derek titled his head with a curious expression on his face, and he reminded Stiles for a moment of a puppy. 

“Okay.”

“Great, thanks. I really appreciate it. I know you have better things to do than train a mediocre catcher, but since it's likely I'll be catching for you, I need to know your repertoire. I don't want to be the thing that holds you back from getting called up.”

“Stiles.”

“Yeah?”

“I said I'd do it.”

“Right, right.”

They stayed after practice the next day. Coach Finstock actually looked at them approvingly when he went in for the day and saw that they were heading back out to the field. It wasn't enough approval for Finstock to not call him Bilinski on his way, but Stiles focused on the head nod instead.

“I think he's starting to like me.”

Derek snorted in response. 

They tossed the ball back and forth for a bit first, and it reminded Stiles of why he loved playing baseball in the first place. There was a rhythm to the sound the ball made as it struck the inside of one glove and then whizzed through the air to slap against the leather of the other.

Once they were both warm, Derek waited while Stiles traded his beat up old glove for his catcher's mitt and put on the rest of his gear. 

Derek's first few pitches were too slow and there was barely any spin on them. Stiles suggested working on the pitch because he knew Derek had only started using it the last couple years. He had relied heavily on a four-seamer early in his career, but had lost some of his speed as he got older. If he had any hope of being called back up, he would need the cutter. But mostly, he was just hoping it would get Derek more comfortable being on the mound again. 

After a few more pitches, Derek started getting into it. He even managed to get perfect placement on it—slightly off-center—and Stiles was with him on every pitch. Whipping the ball back up to the mound with unabashed glee. He didn't think he was ever going to get over his lingering awe of the pitcher. 

Stiles was still crouched in position when Derek crossed his arms over his chest. Stiles tilted his head in confusion and then walked toward the mound. As he got closer, Derek started shaking his head.

“You don't need any practice with this.”

Stiles could have made something up in response. He wasn't a great liar, but he could usually just babble away on a tangent to create a diversion. It was a nervous habit that had actually proved useful over the years. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. When it came down to it, he didn't want to lie to Derek.

“I know,” Stiles said quietly. 

Understanding crossed Derek's face immediately, and he hung his head down. He didn't speak for a solid minute, and Stiles thought maybe he should just back away slowly and hope Derek didn't try to kick his ass. 

“Why are you helping me?”

“Because no one else will, and you need it.”

The cold stare Stiles received in return wasn't surprising, so much so that this time that he didn't even flinch.

Stiles expected Derek to leave immediately. He was shocked when Derek just fell in step beside him and they went to the locker room in silence. He was also a little surprised that Derek stuck around to shower, but he didn't seem to be in a hurry to get out of there.

Stiles had no idea where it came from, but he got another burst of courage. 

“Wanna get a dr- er, dinner?” He winced a little at his near faux pas. “I mean, I'm sure you have exciting plans and all, but we're going to be on the road for a week and I am jonesing for real pizza before we go to Scranton. I'm actually half convinced Scranton is a portal to Bizarro World and we're going to have to say goodbye instead of hello. So, yeah, the pizza situation could be dire.”

Stiles' jaw dropped when Derek agreed.

They ended up at a local place that wasn't too far from where Stiles lived. They went through the motions of looking at the menu and ordering, but then after a lot of awkward silence, Stiles finally spit it out. 

“So, what's your damage?”

“What do you mean, my damage?”

“Look, I know there is more going on here than a knee injury or punishment for a drinking habit. At least half the pitchers in the majors are functioning cokeheads.”

“That's a terrible stereotype.”

“Just because it's a stereotype doesn't mean it's not true, and don't try to change the subject. I know Mr. Argent has it in for you for some reason.”

“Why don't you ask your friend's little girlfriend if you're so interested in the Argents' business.”

“Because Scott is my best friend and I promised him I wouldn't fuck anything up for him. In high school, there was this girl he obsessed over and I might have said something about the unnatural bond he had with the dogs at the vet where he worked. She might have taken it the wrong way and to this day he blames me that she turned him down. It's not like I can really have a conversation with Allison anyway. Wherever she is, Scott is, and wherever Allison and Scott are there is a ridiculous amount of hetero PDA, and I don't have much of a gag reflex to speak of, but they manage to set it off.”

It was only later that Stiles realized he inadvertently came out to Derek Hale.

At the time, he was too busy trying to find a way to backpedal from his word vomit. Derek might have just got up and left, but luckily the pizza arrived, providing the perfect distraction. After they tore into their first slices, Stiles dropped the subject of the Argents and stuck to safe topics, like baseball and food and bad infomercials that apparently they both shared an affinity for. 

They stayed away from personal topics, no talk of family or relationships, but Stiles was still shocked at how much Derek was opening up and staying engaged. He almost seemed interested, content to let Stiles recount entire episodes of Family Guy Derek had never seen and stories about the stupid things he and Scott got into as kids. 

Derek laughed and smiled more in two hours than he had the whole time Stiles knew him. If he were any other human being, Stiles would have been sure that at times Derek had even been flirting. 

It was only the dimming of lights that caused a break in their conversation, startling Stiles out of telling Derek about the time he had tried to sneak back into his house when he was 16 by attempting, and failing, to get up onto the roof to get to his bedroom window.

“Well, I guess we should go before they kick us out.”

Stiles signaled for the check, which their waitress already had ready for them. As he reached for it, Derek snatched it out of her hand and whipped out his credit card before Stiles could object.

“You can get it next time,” Derek said gruffly.

Stiles tried to shrug the comment off, but inside his heart was flipping. This wasn't just a one time, out of the blue thing. Derek actually liked spending time with him.

Derek walked Stiles to his Jeep after the waitress ushered them out the door. It was almost as if he didn't actually want to part company. He even opened Stiles' Jeep door for him, holding it as Stiles climbed in. Stiles wanted so badly to just lean in and plant one on him, but he was only 75% sure it would have been well-received, and that wasn't enough to risk it.

“Thank you, Stiles,” Derek said as he took a step back from the Jeep.

“Oh, well I- you know- there's really no need to thank me. I should be thanking you. For dinner and everything, and-”

“Shut up, Stiles.”

And then Derek walked toward his Camero. 

It took Stiles a good five minutes before his heart stopped racing.

Derek didn't say anything about their quasi-date the next day, and he didn't act any differently around Stiles. Frankly, Stiles would have preferred if Derek had been different, even if that meant ignoring Stiles completely. In fact, he was beginning to think that there was nothing worse in the world than being treated with indifference. Especially when it was so obvious that Derek was holding back. Stiles knew Derek enjoyed himself, and he knew there was chemistry there that wasn't completely one-sided. What he didn't know was whether or not Derek was willing to act on it. Stiles couldn't tell if he just didn't want to appear too friendly in case he was interested, or if he actually wasn't interested and wanted to let Stiles down easy. 

So, they were mostly back to weird looks, curt remarks, and a whole lot of silence, but when Coach Finstock said, “are we not men?” in the midst of a pep talk and Stiles retorted, “We are Devo!” Stiles was sure he heard Derek snickering.

Things changed after the first game Derek pitched with Stiles where he gave up a run. They were playing a solid offensive team, and Derek just looked uncomfortable up on the mound. It took until the 11th inning before he got his shit together and closed out the game. Finstock had actually called a meeting on the mound and it was only on Stiles’ insistence that he didn’t pull Derek from the game. 

Derek apologized in the locker room. 

Stiles shrugged. “Sometimes it takes extra innings to figure out your rhythm. We won in the end and that's what matters.”

“I should have listened to you more. I just wasn't feeling good about my fastball and it got into my head. But I was second-guessing myself, not your calls. I just- I wanted you to know that.”

Stiles tried not to let his jaw drop. “Next time, just remember this mantra: Stiles is always right.”

Derek cracked a smile.

“Celebrating tonight?” Derek asked after a moment.

Stiles mouth went dry. He didn't have any particular plans. Although he, Boyd, and Isaac often went out together when they didn't have a game the next day, it wasn't set in stone. The way Derek looked, his expression open and his eyes almost hopeful, made Stiles' stomach flip.

He licked his lips and leaned in toward Derek as far as he thought he could get away with. 

“What do you have in mind?”

Derek swallowed hard. “Come over to my place. That pizza place delivers.”

“Okay.” Stiles hoped he didn't sound as breathless as he felt.

Stiles offered to just follow Derek home, but Derek shook his head and gave him directions in a whispered voice as they were in the training room, waiting for Deaton. 

It turned out that they lived fairly close to each other so Stiles was familiar with the area. Derek's apartment was not at all what Stiles expected, but it was still completely 100% Derek. Stiles knew it was just a temporary residence for the pitcher, but there were still human touches that surprised him. 

Though he didn't have much time to look around, because as soon as he walked through the door, Derek was pushing him up against it hard, grabbing him by the lapels of his jacket.

“Tell me you want this. Tell me this stays between us.”

Stiles roused up all the courage he could muster, and pressed his lips hard against Derek's. Derek didn't react for a few seconds, but Stiles persisted, parting his lips and twisting his fists in Derek's t-shirt, pulling him in closer until Stiles could feel the heat of his body overwhelming him. Then Derek started kissing back, bringing his hand up to cradle the back of Stiles' neck. Stiles thought he was going to spontaneously combust when Derek pulled away enough for Stiles to answer.

“I want you. I've wanted you since I was 16 after my dad and I went to L.A. and I saw you pitch against the Dodgers. After that, I got a poster of you and told my dad I admired your pitching style, but I had already given up on the idea of being a pitcher, and I mostly got it because I liked the way you filled out your uniform. And it's only gotten worse now that I know you. Do you have any idea what it's like to constantly be around someone you jerked off to more times than you can count, and oh my god, I can't believe I said that out loud.”

Derek didn't say anything, instead slamming his lips back onto Stiles'. They were already practically sharing the same space, but Derek crowded in even further. His chest was rock solid against Stiles', and it was simultaneously overwhelming and not close enough. But then Derek pushed his thigh between Stiles' legs, and Stiles groaned in relief that he now had something to rut up against, the slightest amount of relief for the desire building up in him. He was already on the brink of losing his mind to the sensation when he felt Derek's hardness pushing against his hip. 

And then Derek was panting against his mouth. “And who are you going to tell about this?”

Stiles shook his head, trying to get the cloud of lust to dissipate enough to let himself speak. 

“My ass is on the line here, too. Poor choice of words, but you know what I mean. I've wanted to be a baseball player since I was six, I'm not about to test the waters by being the first out and proud one.”

“Not even McCall?”

“I'm not saying he won't figure it out on his own, because even though he's not the quickest on the draw, he's known me since I was six and he's as fluent in Stiles Stilinski as anyone. And you could totally trust him, but if you want me to deny it I will.”

And then Derek growled. He actually growled and started pawing at Stiles' clothes. They left a trail down the hallway, and Stiles couldn't help but think that only happened in movies. But then getting to play baseball with one of your idols, who was also insanely attractive and kind of miraculously into you was pretty much storybook, too. Well, if they made storybooks for gay kids. 

Derek's bedroom was starker than the rest of the house, no furniture other than a huge bed, a nightstand, and a dresser. It had all the tell-tale signs of a bachelor who traveled a lot.

“How do you want to do this?”

Stiles almost choked. It hadn't once occurred to him that Derek wouldn't want to top. 

“Once a catcher, always a catcher, I guess.”

“Now is not the time for bad baseball puns.” 

“It's always time for bad baseball puns. I mean, you have to admit this is kind of funny.”

“No. It's not.”

“Sex is a fun way to get off. It doesn't have to be this deep, serious fusing of two souls or pressure-filled, bottom of the ninth, game-winning slide into home. Relax.”

“You can't, can you? You are physically incapable of not making bad puns.”

“It's all part of my charm.”

“Well, your charm is killing my boner.”

“You're in luck today, because my mouth is good for other things too.”

Derek shook his head at the smarmy suggestion in Stiles' voice, but as it turned out he wasn't just trying to be witty. He slid down the bed until he was getting an eyeful of cock. For a second, he considered teasing Derek, drawing it out, but getting off remained top priority, so he wrapped his lips around Derek's cock and sunk down. 

Stiles Stilinski wasn't the best and brightest at anything, but he knew his head-giving abilities were more than above average. 

“Oh god. So your mouth is good for something.”

“I told you, very, very little gag reflex.”

It was the last thing Stiles said for awhile. He didn't know if he'd get another chance to blow Derek, so he tried to give as good as he could. By the sounds Derek was making, what Stiles was doing was being met with approval. Stiles sucked Derek until he was on the verge of coming.

Derek actually whined when Stiles pulled off, but Stiles quickly turned around and got onto his hands and knees, pushing his ass back shamelessly, hoping it looked inviting. 

The mattress shifted and seconds later, Derek's hands were on his ass, spreading his cheeks open and rubbing his thumb against Stiles' hole. 

“God damn,” Derek muttered. 

“I know, I know, this body was made for sin. You can admire it all you want after you fuck me.”

That moved Derek into action. He gathered supplies from somewhere by his bed and then Stiles felt the cool slickness of lube rolling down his ass crack. Derek didn't prep him much, but Stiles was practically panting that he was relaxed and ready for the intrusion of Derek's cock. 

Stiles exhaled roughly as Derek slowly pushed inside him. As soon as Stiles felt comfortable enough with the stretch, he started up with the commentary. 

“I have a healthy imagination, but this far surpasses it. If I had a time machine, I would go back and make my younger self give me a high five. I'd probably buy him a bigger dildo, too. This is giving a whole new sense to the term 'big league' for me.”

“Do you ever stop talking?” There was almost laughter in Derek's voice as he pulled out and pushed back in slowly, like he was testing the waters. 

Stiles turned and looked over his shoulder. “Try and stop me.”

Derek took the cue and slammed into Stiles harder, setting an almost brutal pace. 

“Oh yeah, that's it. Fuck me. Fuck me,” Stiles chanted.

As he got closer and closer to losing it, Stiles went down onto one forearm, so he could jerk himself off. Derek curved around Stiles' back and it was oddly intimate; Derek's warm breath was in his ear. He wasn't talking, at least not in words, but it warmed Stiles all over until he thought he might burst in white hot heat.

“Come on, Stiles.” Derek's voice almost sounded desperate. 

It sparked a chain reaction. Stiles clenched his ass, which tipped Derek over the edge, dragging Stiles with him. 

It was good sex. In fact, it was some of the best sex Stiles had had in years. Usually he only got quick fucks with guys he picked up in clubs, or on occasion when he went home Danny would be up for a tumble between the sheets for old time's sake.

After this, he knew it would be awhile before he'd find any sense of satisfaction in a nameless one-night stand.


	4. Chapter 4

Stiles wasn't surprised that Derek didn't call. 

He wasn't surprised that he acted as if Stiles didn't exist.

He _was_ surprised that it stung so much. It wasn't as if it hadn't happened before. He didn't hide his sexuality as much in college, and there was always at least one hyper-masculine jock who wanted to “experiment” before he went back into the closet for good and spent the rest of his life having mediocre sex with his hot, should-be-more-attracted-to-her-than-I-am wife until she got pregnant and he could use his children as a buffer while occasionally seeking out a male prostitute to scratch that itch. Stiles was all-too familiar with that story, but what he hadn't expected was for Derek to be one of those guys. 

Derek had been so confident in bed. He knew how to touch a man, how to fuck a man; it was obvious he had done it before. 

There was something else, though. There was something about Derek Hale that Stiles was drawn to, and that's why he couldn't let it go. 

If Stiles had to pinpoint it to something tangible, it was Derek's eyes. Not because they were green and piercing, but because even through the glares, there was a world going on behind those eyes that Stiles wanted access to. 

Stiles was usually a magnet for vapid gym-rats who were overcompensating for self-loathing they weren't introspective enough to know was even there—exactly the type that you could get off with but not take to dinner. It worked out well, it really did. It had taken him until his sophomore year of college to fully lose his virginity, and then he sort of went a little overboard. He was just so happy he was finally getting laid that his rational desire for quality sort of lost out in favor of quantity. He wasn't proud of it, but as he got a little older and was pushed a little further into the closet by his chosen profession, the need for something a little more responsible started mediating between his brain and his cock.

And Derek, though a man of few words, was interesting. He had an edge to him that made him seem a little dangerous. In spite of the aura of mystery around him and even though he'd had a stellar major league career, he wasn't full of himself at all. After they recovered from the post-sex haze, they actually did order a pizza, watched _Sportscenter_ , and quipped back at Chris Berman and Stuart Scott together. Derek even provided some hilarious commentary when they got to baseball highlights, doing an impression of the Rangers reliever that had Stiles choking with laughter. 

Stiles thought there was a connection there. At least they could be friends who fucked on occasion. 

But Derek was making his opinion on the matter pretty clear.

It was easy to avoid him on the road. Hale kept to himself, managed to be the only player on the entire team who didn't have to share a hotel room, but then, no one seemed eager to spend any more time with him than necessary. Derek wasn't exactly standoffish, but he keep slightly more than a professional distance between himself and pretty much everyone else. He had a little more to say to his fellow pitchers, but Stiles didn't just see the field well, he could see that Derek had a genuine love of pitching and he couldn't help but try to share it with people he thought might get it. 

Unfortunately, knowing that made Stiles like the guy even more and the rejection sting all the more. 

Stiles finagled his way into rooming with Scott. But once Scott realized he was moping, Stiles almost regretted the arrangement. He didn't like lying to Scott, but even though Derek was acting like a first-class douchebag, he wasn't going to betray his trust. He insisted it was homesickness, which was actually a little true. Scott let it drop, but he reminisced about Beacon Hills more than usual and encouraged Stiles to call his dad, and Stiles knew it wasn't coincidental. Sometimes he forgot what a good friend Scott was. 

During the day they trained, but that was easy. Nothing would get in the way of Stiles' game, even a silent, brooding pitcher who also happened to have fucked Stiles into the mattress days prior before completely ignoring him. So he pushed it out of his mind and concentrated on the Scranton Railriders. Stiles sat out their first game in the dugout next to Boyd, and together they scouted strategy for their turns behind the plate in the rest of the series. If Boyd noticed that Stiles was less quippy than usual, he didn't say anything. 

After the game, all the married guys disappeared on their phones to talk to their wives and children. With a game the next day, going out seemed excessive, but Isaac, Boyd, and Scott apparently had a running poker game that they dealt Stiles into. 

They crowded into Boyd and Isaac's room, and around the hotel table that was too small for four grown men to sit around comfortably, but they had new cards and professional chips and Stiles could tell they really got into it even though they pretended it was more something to do than anything else. They played low stakes Texas hold 'em and somehow over the course of the previous season, Scott had managed to be up about 50 bucks on both of the other men. 

Though his winning streak was about to change. 

It only took about three hands for Stiles to have most of Scott's chips and half of Isaac's. He knew Scott's tells, and Isaac was as easy to read as a coloring book. Boyd was tougher, though. Stiles figured that having a girlfriend like Erica meant he was quick on his feet and wily—he would have to be to keep up with her. Stiles was actually enjoying the competition, especially since there wasn't a lot of money at stake. 

It was during that game that Stiles realized Isaac was gay. Isaac pulled out his wallet to dig for more cash to ante up with when a photo came tumbling out. Stiles only got a quick glimpse as he went to retrieve it, but it was very clearly Isaac with his arms wrapped around another guy in a more than friendly way.

Isaac snatched the photo up quickly, but his eyes widened when he realized that Stiles saw it, and Stiles could feel Boyd tense beside him.

So, Stiles did the only thing he could think of doing to ease the situation as fast as possible and lifted up his shirt to show Isaac the Lambda tattooed on his chest.

“I'm going to get a rainbow behind it when my job stops involving showering in front of 39 other dudes. Scott knows. I came out to him when we were 15. He said “okay,” punched me in the arm, and continued kicking my ass at Halo.” 

Scott laughed. “You sucked so bad at Halo.”

“Yeah, well, it was a stupid game anyway. There's no way a parasite could exist that only went after sentient life. That doesn't even make sense! Did they have a sentience-detection app or something?”

“Blasphemy! If we had it your way, we would have played Madden all day everyday.” 

Stiles was about to retort when he realized that Boyd and Isaac were staring at the two of them.

“You're gay, Stilinski?” There was surprise in Isaac's voice.

“Assuming it doesn't leave this room, yes. Never even dabbled in vagina. To each their own, but I've been Team Cock for as long as I can remember.”

Isaac was still gaping at him in disbelief. His mouth opened and closed in a comedic way that normally would have made Stiles laugh if he weren't a little, okay, a lot, freaked out about what he just confessed. By some miracle, Boyd seemed to sense Stiles' discomfort. 

“Don't worry. I've been keeping Lahey's secret for two years,” he said.

“It's safe with me, too,” Scott cut in, looking at Isaac.

Stiles nodded at Boyd in acceptance and then exhaled loudly. Still looking stunned—at being outed or at Stiles' admission, it wasn't clear—Isaac finally mouthed “thank you” to Scott.

At that moment Scott's phone rang, and by the dopey grin on his face it was Allison, so he shot out of the room to take the call. Then Boyd mumbled something about checking in with Erica.

So Stiles and Isaac were left staring across the table at each other, an abandoned poker game between them.

Stiles snorted. “Do they think we need to bond or something? Share trade secrets? Discuss our favorite lube brands? You really had no idea I was gay?”

“Nope. I mean, you didn't show any interest in Erica's bartender friend, but I sort of just figured that was because she's really slutty. Erica figured it out, didn't she?”

“She must have gotten the latest gaydar upgrade, like, level 1 NASA clearance upgrade, because she had me out of the closet in five minutes.”

“Same with me.”

“Wench,” Stiles said with a smile. “So, is that guy in the picture your boyfriend?”

Isaac blushed. “Yeah. He's still in California.”

“That's rough, man.”

“Yeah, we've been together since college. He has a really great job, so he can't just up and leave.”

“I guess it's easier to stay loyal when we're shoved so far in the closet. I mean, not that you’re the type of guy who wouldn’t be loyal or anything. I just assume you get hit on a lot with your jawline and your build, and sometimes it’s hard to say no to sex. Because, yay sodomy? Sorry, I have foot-in-mouth disease.” 

Isaac just snorted in response do Stiles' word vomit. “You have a boyfriend?” he asked.

Stiles almost wanted to tell Isaac about Derek, almost more than he wanted to tell Scott. Isaac would understand in a way Scott couldn't. And to be perfectly honest, Stiles wanted to brag a little. Derek Hale was easily the hottest guy he could ever even dream of pulling. Even though he was currently acting like a giant asshole. But there was no way he would break Derek's confidence. 

“No, just my right hand and a lot of porn. Seriously, if you ever need any fodder, I have everything from 'straight broke dudes' to vintage 70s mustache rides.”

“I'm all right, thanks.”

“If you change your mind.”

“I won't.”

“You say that now, but the offer is always on the table. I don't know what gay kids did before the internet was around to aid them in their sexual awakening, because I'm not sure I ever would have looked at an asshole and thought “I'd like to put my tongue there” without it. Anyway, it's nice to have an ally around. I highly doubt Scott will be here another season, and it's nice to have someone else know who I am, you know?” 

Stiles tried to push the thought that Derek knew who he was, too, out of his mind.

“Yeah,” Isaac agreed. “You talk so much, how has it not slipped out yet?”

“It may seem like a disordered jumble coming out of my mouth, but there's method to my madness. And I'm pretty sure most people just tune me out anyway.”

“Sorry. What was that?” Isaac asked.

“Hah. Really funny, Lahey.”

“I thought so.”

Stiles rolled his eyes, but grinned back. He had always liked Isaac, but now he knew they were going to become real, actual friends.

They picked up the poker game where they left off the next night, but Boyd and Scott had had a bad game and there was a little bit of tension that hadn't gotten left on the field. Neither were concentrating on the game, so Stiles cleaned up pretty quickly.

On the third night in Scranton, Stiles escaped and went for a walk. His new partners in crime and Scott were all moony, and insisted on calling their respective significant others. Although they promised Stiles they'd be up for more cards, Stiles didn't feel like being the honorary seventh wheel. He was in too good a mood to have it be ruined by his dearth of a social life. He had played that night, catching for Jackson, who pitched the whole game. Jackson had been on fire; he came as close to throwing a perfect game as anyone Stiles had ever caught for. Stiles had been buzzing with this weird energy around the third inning, and he just knew something special was happening on the field.

But Stiles couldn't enjoy fully it. He swore he could feel Derek's eyes on him the whole game.

He wanted to get Derek's smoldering stare out of his head, along with the memory of his naked body curving over him, pushing into him, his breath hot against the back of his neck. Of course, because the universe was clearly against him, as he was leaving the hotel he had to dodge what appeared to be a drunken wedding party and managed to bump right into Derek. 

“Stilinski.”

“Hale.” 

He almost let Derek get by, but then without thinking, he reached out and grabbed Derek's wrist. Derek froze.

“Let go,” Derek said through gritted teeth, shaking his wrist free.

“If you promise not to bolt the second I do.”

“Fine.”

Stiles let go of his wrist, his eyes darting around for a place to relocate where they wouldn't be overheard. He jerked his head toward the direction that seemed less full of glaring street lights. Stiles was genuinely surprised when Derek followed him. 

When he got to the corner, he stopped and spun around, throwing his hands in the air in exasperation. 

“So, we're not going to talk about this.”

“There's nothing to talk about.”

“Nothing to- nothing to talk about? Are you fucking serious? You had a good fucking time that night, and you can't get away with lying to me about it. If you're that far shoved into the closet, I get it, but we work together closely and if you don't communicate with me off the field, I have a harder time doing it on the field. If you want to pretend it didn't happen, whatever, but don't forget that I'm your ally here. Me and Deaton are the only ones who give a shit about your knee, so for the sake of your own self-preservation, you might want to pull your head out of your ass and start acknowledging my existence.”

Derek flinched. Stiles had basically called him a washed-up has-been. He wanted to take the words back immediately, but he felt justified in being pissed off. 

Stiles didn't think it was possible, but Derek's expression hardened even more. 

Backpedaling was probably the smarter thing to do, all things considered, but Stiles had had it. He just had one of the best games of his career and he couldn't even enjoy it because Derek fucking Hale was under his skin.

“At least admit you enjoyed fucking me. Admit you would do it again if you didn't have some weird hang up that I would probably _totally understand_ if you would communicate like a normal human being.”

“You don't know what you're talking about, Stilinski.”

“If you tell me I can't handle the truth, so help me. I don't care how hot you are or how big your dick is, quoting Tom Cruise movies is not okay.”

“That's not what I was going to say.”

“Then what were you going to say? Words speak louder than ambiguous glares.”

“Look, it's just not easy for me to do this right now, okay? I wish things were... different. But they aren't, and it's just better for both of us if we keep this professional.”

There wasn't much Stiles could say to that. It reeked of bullshit, but they were teammates and Stiles didn't know the specifics of the bullshit so he was just going to have deal with it. 

“Fine,” he replied through gritted teeth. 

Derek stared at him unblinkingly, and for a second his face looked so wounded Stiles' heart broke a little. But then Derek crossed the street and disappeared into the night. 

When they got back into Buffalo, they were rewarded with two days off—two glorious days where Stiles planned to do nothing but sleep and have a Batman movie marathon.

Of course, thanks to Scott and his fixation with Allison Argent, he wound up at the hospital instead.

It was a community outreach program Allison started that brought them to the Women and Children's Hospital of Buffalo way too early in the morning for Stiles' liking. Everyone on the team was encouraged to visit the hospital once a month, bringing them Bisons memorabilia and taking pictures with the young patients. 

When Stiles found out about the program, he really couldn't say no. Even if Scott's initial motive was to impress Allison, Scott had spent a lot of in hospitals volunteering since his mom was a nurse. He even used to dress up like an elf at Christmas and passed out presents to the kids who were stuck in a hospital bed for the holiday. 

It was always hard for Stiles to enter a hospital, though. He was assaulted with the sounds and smells and too bright lights, and the same feeling of dread always knotted in his stomach that he used to get when he would visit his mom after school. Everyday, he would ask at the nurse's station how his mom was doing, and everyday he would hold his breath, anticipating bad news.

Annoyingly observant at the right time, Scott gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze as they entered the hospital. They were directed toward the third floor to a common room. A few of the other players were there and shockingly Jackson was one of them. When Stiles raised an eyebrow at him Jackson shrugged and tried not to smile down at the little boy who was tugging on his sleeve.

There was a old man in the room with Allison. He looked like someone dressed up like John McCain, white hair combed over and in an ill-fitting suit. There was something familiar about him, though.

“Scott!” Allison exclaimed when she saw them approach. 

“And Stiles,” Stiles added indignantly.

“And Stiles,” Allison repeated with a smile. She gave each of them a friendly hug, but she tensed when the man beside her cleared his throat. “Guys, this is my grandpa, Gerard Argent. Grandpa, this is Scott McCall, our star pitcher, and Stiles Stilinski, one of our catchers.”

It all clicked then. Stiles knew they were related, but to see Gerard in the flesh was surreal. He was the patriarch of one of the most famous baseball families. He had World Series rings from when he worked for the Phillies. The way he was dressed, it didn't look like he was just visiting his granddaughter. He could have been recruiting, but that wasn't the owner's job, and a children's hospital wasn't exactly the right place to scout for the Rule 5 draft. There had to be another reason, and Stiles wondered if it had something to do with Derek. Although Stiles hadn't seen Derek there yet, he was the only player Chris seemed to take a personal interest in. Like son, like father?

Gerard Argent looked both of them up and down like they were show ponies and he was trying to determine if they were good stock. He seemed much more interested in Scott, but that was either because he knew about Scott's talent or because it was pretty obvious by the way Scott was staring googly-eyed at Allison that he was trying to get into his granddaughter's pants. 

Luckily, a nurse came in with a few more children and it was enough of a diversion to escape the clutches of Argent's creepy gaze. The kids they brought in were in the hospital for surgery or tests or under observation, and by the looks of the frazzled parents who accompanied them, they could all use the distraction. Stiles and Scott spent the next hour talking with the kids and their parents and taking pictures. 

The whole time, Stiles kept an eye on Gerard. He wasn't interacting with any of the children, mostly hovering around Allison like he was scouting her. Stiles had spent enough time with Allison since she and Scott stopped staring at each other like lovesick puppies and started dating that he had a good read on her (if he did say so himself), and Scott had been right, she was definitely uncomfortable around her grandpa. Whenever he wasn’t paying attention, she would inch away from him like he actually made her skin crawl. As the hour passed, Gerard started to get antsy as if he was waiting for something. When Stiles heard Gerard's phone buzzing, he swore he saw him roll his eyes, but he stepped out into the hallway to take the call.

Stiles curiosity got the better of him. He tugged on Scott's arm, pulling him away from little boy who was talking about how much better the Yankees were than the Mets, much to Stiles' dismay. 

“Sorry! Important baseball business was have to take care of.”

The kid looked rightfully skeptical. 

“It's a training exercise that the Yankees use. We have to stick to a tight schedule.”

Scott shot the kid a winning smile, and he just waved them away. Stiles made a note to come back and bring the kid a jersey, a Mets jersey, because he couldn't completely debase himself. 

“He probably thinks we're on steroids now,” Scott muttered.

“Well you, maybe, because of your freakishly huge arms.”

“My arms are _not_ freakish. I'm a _pitcher_.”

“Yeah, yeah, well I'm not the one that kid is side-eying hard right now.”

Allison was occupied with leading some of the kids in a “design a mascot” coloring contest, so they were able to slip out undetected.

Stiles frantically looked back and forth, until he saw Gerard disappear behind a corner. He all but ran to catch up, dragging Scott behind him. When he reached the end of the corridor he stopped, and Scott almost slammed into him.

“Okay, now be quiet.”

“Why are we sneaking around a hospital?” Scott asked.

“Shh.” 

Stiles had purposefully neglected to mention to Scott that he saw Derek's Camaro in the visitor's parking lot, but he just had a feeling that was who Gerard Argent was looking for. Luckily the hospital was noisy enough that Gerard didn't notice the extra sets of footsteps following him down the hallway toward the terminal wing. 

Gerard's phone rang again, and he stopped in front of the double doors to the wing entrance, turning into a small nook in the hallway presumably for privacy. There was no where else for Stiles and Scott to go, so they kept their heads down and entered the wing. When they pushed through the double doors, it opened up into a wide hallway with a nurses station on the left, and across from it was a huge picture window that looked into some kind of day room. There were a few children in wheelchairs in the room, along with hovering parents and smiling nurses.

And then Stiles saw that his suspicions had been right. In the middle of the kids was Derek Hale.

Stiles was frozen in place for a few seconds, bewildered by the warmth on Derek's face as he placed a cap onto a little boy's head. It was only then that Stiles realized, if he could see Derek, then Derek could just as easily look up and see him.

So, he ducked behind the counter of the thankfully unoccupied nurses station and pulled Scott with him. Then he peered around the corner, having a clear shot of the room across from it. Scott scrambled around to look over Stiles' shoulder, even though he still had no idea what they were looking for.

There was another man in the room who clearly wasn't a doctor or a parent. A nurse was taking a picture of him with a boy in a wheelchair. The man was tall and broad, clearly an athlete, and when he turned around, Stiles recognized him as Peter Hale. He looked a little like Derek, and that's when Stiles put two and two together. Peter played for Gerard's team at the end of his career, the termination of his contract under a cloud of suspicion. 

That was who Gerard Argent was looking for, not Derek.

“Peter Hale,” Stiles hissed. 

For once Scott seemed to have an ounce of baseball knowledge, because his eyes widened in recognition. 

“What's he doing here? Visiting Derek?”

“At a children's hospital? That seems weird.”

“You think it's community service or something?”

“He's never been arrested.” 

“How do you know that?”

“It's called Google. You may have heard of it. It's like Ask Jeeves only it actually finds what you're searching for.”

“You're starting to be a creeper with all the 'research' you're doing.”

“I'm telling you, there's something going on.”

“It could just be a publicity stunt.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “There aren't any reporters. There aren't even any cameras.”

The squeaking of tennis shoes made Stiles tense and clamp his hand over Scott's mouth. A nurse walked into the room, a disgruntled Gerard Argent following behind her. Stiles had a clear view still of Peter, who stiffened noticeably when he saw Mr. Argent. But after taking one more picture with a little girl in a Phillies cap, he wordlessly followed Gerard out of the room, and Stiles couldn't help but notice he looked like a dog with its tail between its legs.

Derek frowned, looking even surlier than usual, as Peter left. 

But then he seemed to remember where he was, and he relaxed, kneeling down so he was eye-to-eye with a little girl, who proceeded to wrap her skinny arms around his neck in a hug. Stiles actually had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from saying “aw.”

Of course, the problem was that Stiles and Scott were stuck. They couldn't leave the wing and risk Gerard seeing them, so Stiles indulged in more Derek watching. He just looked so much softer than Stiles could have ever imagined him looking. He was smiling, actually full-blown smiling, at the kids, and doling out affection as if he genuinely wanted to.

When Scott elbowed him, he knew he must have been being obvious, but luckily the double doors to the wing swung open. They both held still, and Stiles was able to catch a snippet of Gerard and Peter's conversation.

“He doesn't know,” Peter said.

“And we're going to keep it that way,” Gerard replied.

As the doors swung shut, Stiles almost fell over, craning to hear more. Apparently it was the end of the conversation, though, because Peter came barreling through the doors moments later, and back into the day room. 

He didn't mask himself for the sake of the kids in the room, and with a glance up at his uncle, Derek immediately started apologizing to the kids and glaring at Peter. After what looked like a round of goodbyes to the kids, Peter stalked out of the room. Derek trailed behind him, accompanied by a nurse. 

“See you next week, Derek?” she asked as they paused outside the door.

“Yeah. Home games, so I'll be here.”

So apparently Derek was a regular visitor and wasn't just participating in the same outreach program as the rest of the team. As Stiles sat very tense next to Scott, hoping against hope that they wouldn't be discovered at least until Derek left, he tried to ignore the clenching feeling in his heart. He wanted to tell himself that this was just a part of the strange demands Derek seemed to get from Chris Argent, but he knew it wasn't. Derek was here at the hospital, in the terminal ward when the other players were in a different area, of his own free will. 

He was never going to figure out Derek Hale. 

Eventually Scott and Stiles were able to make their escape. Well, a nurse caught them crawling on their hands and knees to the double doors so no one in the day room would see them through the window, and Scott had to frantically convince her that they were supposed to be there, while Stiles made up a story about them searching for a missing contact lens that she totally didn't believe. 

Luckily the nurse was not immune to Scott's, well, Stiles hesitated to call it charm, but whatever it was, it got them out of the wing without security being called or Allison finding out that they were sneaking around, kind of, sort of, creeping on her grandfather.

But Stiles still didn't have any answers, only more questions. Peter Hale used to be one of Gerard Argent’s star players until his contract was abruptly terminated with no explanation to the media. So what caused the obvious bad blood between them? Who were they talking about and what didn’t they want him to know? And how did Derek fit into all this? 

Stiles tried not to care. He tried to tell himself there was something going on he didn't like that he wanted to get to the bottom of, but that was only a partial truth. In spite of everything, in spite of the callous way Derek tried to blow him off, he still liked Derek. And he knew Derek liked him back. Stiles just had a feeling that there was something stopping him from acting like a normal person, and he needed to get to the bottom of it. 

So, he decided to try the only person he could think of who might be willing to give him information.


	5. Chapter 5

After the next practice, Stiles dropped in to visit Dr. Deaton. He did need to ice down his knees, but practice hadn't been particularly grueling and he didn't have any noticeable swelling. Deaton looked at him questioningly, but wordlessly took a look at his knees.

“So,” Stiles tried to be casual. “Did you go to med school in the area?”

Dr. Deaton looked up and narrowed his eyes. “Why the sudden interest in my life, Stilinski?”

“I was just in the children's hospital this weekend for the Players-to-Patients program. Have you heard about it? I was sort of skeptical about it, but those kids looked so happy. I guess anything to break up the monotony when you're stuck in a hospital, and ball players are way better than some creepy clown, unless the clown makes balloon animals, because who doesn't like a balloon animal, right?”

“Are you going somewhere with this?”

“Oh, right, well, I was just thinking about, you know, the medical profession, and I thought about trainers and, by extension, you.”

“Uh huh.”

It was so obvious that Deaton wasn't willing to pick up what Stiles was laying down, so he tried a different tactic.

“I saw Derek there.”

“He was the one who gave Miss Argent the idea for the program.”

“Really?”

“I'm surprised you didn't know. You seem to be the closest thing he has to a friend on this team.”

The way Deaton said it made Stiles feel so exposed; he wondered if he could somehow tell that he and Derek had slept together. Very few things rendered Stiles speechless, and as the awkward silence stretched on, he was certain he was making things worse and raising Deaton's suspicions. 

But Deaton just went on with his work, so Stiles relaxed a little. Not one to give up, he tried a third approach. 

“So, do you know Peter Hale, too?”

“I interned in the majors.” 

Stiles sighed. “Fine. You're not going to give me any information about why both Peter Hale and Gerard Argent descended upon Buffalo on the same weekend. Or why they both seemed to be checking up on Derek at a children's hospital of all places, are you?”

“It's not my story to tell.” 

“You know the whole mysterious, catchy one-liners thing is played out, right? If you tell me that fear leads to hate and hate leads to anger and anger leads to suffering I'm going to have to, well, invite you over for a Star Wars marathon, for one, but I'll also be kind of actually pissed off.”

“Yoda I am not.”

“Very funny.”

But Deaton remained tight-lipped for the rest of the session.

When Stiles got home, Derek, of all people, was waiting for him in the parking lot. He was leaning against his Camaro with his arms crossed in front of his chest.

“You definitely have the creepy stalker vibe down. Well done, there.”

Stiles wasn't angry with Derek anymore, but he wasn't feeling particularly accommodating. He was frustrated at his own confusion. Normally he liked puzzles, but he just didn't have all the pieces. The hospital, Derek's uncle, the weird encounter between Peter Hale and Gerard Argent, Deaton's silence, he wanted answers and he knew he wasn't going to get them in the form of candidness from anyone seemingly involved.

Stiles walked past Derek and to his front door. He felt Derek following behind him, but he didn't turn around. He unlocked the door and pushed it open, it was only then that Derek spoke.

“Can I come in?”

Stiles huffed and held the door open for him in acquiescence. Derek walked in and then just stood, shifting from foot to foot in the living room. He looked lost and bewildered, like he didn't really know what he was doing there himself. 

Stiles sighed, his resolve to be aloof was shrinking. “Drink? I have water, soda, probably some o.j.”

“Some water, please.”

Stiles very deliberately got Derek a glass of water, making the silence stretch until Derek finally broke.

“You're being quiet.”

“Well, since you showed up on my doorstep, I assumed you would be the one doing most of the talking. Although you have the strong silent type thing going for you, so maybe you'd be more comfortable pantomiming. Or we could play charades? I'm a horrible actor, but I'm usually pretty good at guessing. One time my aunt was trying to act out “Every Little Thing She Does is Magic” and I got it from her pretending to wave a wand.”

The look that Stiles had learned to recognize as the “are you still talking?” glare appeared on Derek's face, so Stiles shut up and gave Derek a chance.

“I'm not- I'm not uncomfortable with my sexuality. I know you'll be discreet. I have some strict clauses in my contract about the types of personal relationships I'm allowed to maintain, particularly in public. Fraternizing with teammates isn't explicitly forbidden, but I'm not sure what will happen if they find out.”

It would have had more of an impact had Derek not been fidgeting uncomfortably. The lameness of the explanation wasn't going to cut it, and the “so not amused” look Stiles shot him seemed to be enough to get him to try again. 

“I wasn't in a good place for a long time. I'm still not really, there are some things that have happened, but I'm doing better. I just- I'm usually more cautious before I jump into bed with someone. And I've never fucked a teammate before. I've always kept that separate. The game is always first, but you- you're everywhere. Offering to help me get back into condition, paying attention to my knee, learning my pitches, trying to get to know me, and you're just so- you're in my head. What am I supposed to do with that?”

Stiles swore his heart skipped a beat. Derek had finally dropped his mask a little, and Stiles knew intuitively that he had been granted a rare, very rare, privilege.

Stiles wanted to ask him so much more, but then Derek licked his lips and tilted his head and Stiles' brain short-circuited. The hottest man Stiles had ever seen up close, a man who featured in Stiles' wet dreams as a teenager, was standing in the middle of his living room, and he seemed to be interested at least in fucking Stiles again. The memory of Derek's cock was enough to get him on his knees and scrambling for Derek's belt, shoving Derek's jeans down to his knees along with his boxerbriefs.

“Just- just let me-” and then he cut himself off and wrapped his lips around Derek's cock.

It wasn't the best response to the situation. It wasn't the responsible adult response to the situation. But apparently a vulnerable Derek Hale was Stiles' kryptonite.

And if the way Derek responded by pulling him off the floor and manhandling him onto his own couch, maneuvering, them so he could suck Stiles off simultaneously, was what that meant, he didn't much care about being responsible.

As he came down Derek's throat with two of Derek's fingers pressing into him, Stiles decided he didn't really need any answers. If Derek was willing to make him come so hard he could see stars, why did his past matter? What business was it of Stiles' to figure it out? 

Of course, after coming down from his orgasm, he knew his natural curiosity was going to win out in the long run, so there wasn't really any sense in fighting it. But he was still going to enjoy all the sex he could get in the meantime.

For about 24 hours, everything was hunky dory in Stiles' life. Derek acknowledged him at practice the next day. He even cracked a smile when Stiles quipped to Coach Finstock that the role of Jed Bartlet had already been played. Stiles was actually taken aback that Derek had ever watched The West Wing, let alone knew that Finstock was quoting one of the best television presidents of all time. 

Of course, the good didn't last.

Scott got called up to the majors the next day. 

Stiles knew it was going to happen at some point. He had always known that Scott was just passing through the minors on his way to major league stardom. And he was thrilled for Scott, he was, ecstatic and proud beyond belief, even. He just wasn't prepared for it to happen so soon. 

He helped Scott pack up his apartment. There actually wasn't that much stuff for someone who had lived in the same place for over a year. Scott had the most stereotypical bachelor pad ever, though. Bruce Lee posters were his preferred wall décor, he only had two bath towels that he rotated between, and he owned no appliances—unless his Xbox counted. Even though packing didn't take long, Stiles still spent the whole day listening to Scott ramble on and on about how much he was going to miss Allison, and what they had was so new, and would they be able to work it out, and well, Stiles tuned out a little. 

He wasn't even annoyed by it though, because the truth was, he was going to miss Scott, obsessive romantic ramblings and all. They had gone to different colleges and were pros at keeping in touch with texting and Stiles' notorious drunk dialing. But it had been nice having the daily contact. Scott was one of the only people in Stiles' life who knew everything about him, who understood Stiles' moods and when he needed to be shaken out of them. He was there through Stiles' mom's losing battle with cancer. He was there through Stiles' dad's battle with alcohol. He was the first person Stiles had come out to. 

But even more than all of that, they had been playing baseball together again for the first time since high school. It was what they talked about constantly as kids all the way back in little league, and no, it wasn't Shea Stadium, and Stiles had better games with Jackson and with Derek, but it was as close as they'd ever come to having their childhood dream realized.

Stiles was having a hard time letting that go.

It wasn't a coincidence that he pushed himself harder than normal during the next extra practice with Derek.

Derek knew something was up, but he didn't say anything. 

Instead, he asked if Stiles had any plans after practice.

They both knew what was going to end up happening, so they skipped the formality of a date and got takeout. Stiles barely tasted his food; it was a mere necessity to refuel after a grueling practice. He had barely finished swallowing the last of his Kung Pao chicken when he was pouncing on Derek, the rest of the crab rangoon going tumbling across the table in a flurry of limbs. 

Derek stuck around after bending Stiles over his kitchen table and fucking him hard and fast and a little rough, exactly the way Stiles wanted it, spilled Chinese food be damned. And then again in bed, slower but just as forcefully, as if he knew Stiles was trying to quiet the voice in his head that was telling him he'd never be good enough for the majors over and over again. 

Stiles had gotten up for a snack and came back with a half gallon of ice cream. The second spoon was an afterthought. Derek waved it away anyway, when Stiles offered it to him. Instead, he settled back against Stiles' headboard as if he belonged there.

“How can you be okay with this?” Derek finally asked, after Stiles had crammed the third giant spoonful of minty chocolate goodness into his mouth.

“This? What this? Mint chocolate chip has always been my favorite. It wasn't really something I had to get used to.”

Derek glared. “Being in the minors. No chance of getting called up.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence. Between you, coach, and my high school guidance counselor, I'm going to need years of therapy.”

“I didn't mean—”

“Yeah, I know. Don't backpedal. It's not a good look on you.”

He took another huge bite of ice cream before he answered. 

“When I was a kid, I wanted to pitch for the Mets. I slept in Mets pajamas on Mets sheets. I could tell you the career ERA of every Mets pitcher for the last fifteen years. Yours was 3.45 before your last season. As it turns out, I'm not a very good pitcher. I'm a strategist. I'm observant. I know the game. I'm not the muscle. I'm just not quite good enough to make it to the majors and I know it. But I'm still playing baseball for a living. Baseball. The only thing I could ever really stay focused on, even after my mom died, and I get to do this for a paycheck.” 

Stiles paused for another spoonful of mint chocolate chip before continuing. “I don't need endorsements and six-figures and jerseys with my name on the back. I just need a roof over my head, a gaming computer, and when I go to work everyday, I get to bask in the smell of stale popcorn and freshly mowed grass and questionable fried food and leather and sweat. We don't all get to play the hero, but I'm happy. It took me a long time to figure out that it was okay to just be happy.”

Stiles exhaled in what felt like the first time since he heard Scott's big news. He was happy. It didn't matter that he'd probably never be a Met. It didn't matter that Scott was better than he was. He still loved going out on the field everyday. 

Stiles felt Derek's eyes on him.

He turned to face him fully and was startled by the open expression on Derek's face. Derek's eyes looked glassy and his mouth was hanging open slightly. He looked even more vulnerable than he had the night he came to Stiles to apologize. The man of few words didn't seem to have a response. 

“You remind me so much of her...” His voice was uncharacteristically soft, trailing off as if he didn't realize he was speaking out loud.

“You can tell me. If you want.”

Stiles put his spoon down and set the nearly empty ice cream container on the floor, as if proving to Derek he was serious. Then, he waited.

“My sister,” Derek finally said. “She was two years older than me. We were close enough in age that we grew up together. We lived out in the middle of nowhere, so we played outside all the time, climbed trees, caught frogs, but mostly we played ball. She was a really good softball player. If they had a pro league, she would have been in it. Would have. But she-” His voice cracked.

Stiles reached out a hand reflexively and set it on Derek's knee.

“Cancer?”

“Leukemia. How did you-?”

“My mom. Ever since she- well, I can just tell when other people have gone through a similar thing. It's like we're in the most horrible club you could possibly be in.”

Derek nodded. His hand came up to cover Stiles' and Stiles wondered if he was even aware he was making the gesture. His eyes were shining but no tears had fallen from them. 

“She just had so much passion. For everything, not just softball, for being alive, for my career. She's the only reason why I didn't go off the rails after our parents died.”

Stiles had almost forgotten. Derek spoke so infrequently about his family, which seemed so fitting with his personality that Stiles didn't give it a second thought. But Stiles remembered when it happened. It was when Stiles was in high school. He fought his dad for the Sports page every morning, and buried on page three was a story about a horrible car accident that killed Derek Hale's parents. They died instantly. The paper didn't get into details, but implied that the accident scene was pretty gruesome. It was right before the post-season, when the Mets had a decent chance of making it.

Derek took some flak in the media for not missing a game. 

“Jesus,” Stiles said. “I'm sorry I didn't even think. All the times I've talked about my dad, and you've just let me ramble on and on.”

“It's okay. It's been long enough that I guess I'm used to it. Plus, you ramble about everything.”

Stiles wasn't buying the attempt at levity in Derek's voice. 

“I just, I don't know what I would do without my dad. After my mom, well, how do you do it?”

He was mostly talking to himself, and he was surprised when Derek actually answered quietly. He was looking down into his lap, but he sounded more resigned than sad.

“I had baseball. It kept me going. It was something familiar that I could just focus on.”

Stiles noticed that Derek clearly said “had” and not “have.” He didn't say anything about it then, though, he just curled into Derek's body and gave him a hug. A few minutes later, he launched into the story about how his baseball career almost didn't materialize when he got suspended for a game after he made a few comments to one of the batters about his height, but how was Stiles supposed to know the kid's parents were actually little people?

It was an effective distraction. Derek didn't stay the night, but he did give Stiles a lingering kiss before he left, and Stiles couldn't quite ignore the warm feeling that had settled into his belly. 

After that night, Stiles felt more comfortable around Derek, like they were actually becoming friends. He felt like he could watch Derek more freely at practice, and their rapport on the field was ever-improving. But it was only a few days later in practice when he confirmed what Derek already seemed to know—Derek's knee wasn't getting better. 

The extra practice sessions and additional weight training had gotten Derek in better shape, but he still showed all the tell tale signs of someone with a knee injury. 

They had been planning on staying after practice again, but while Stiles and Isaac were batting, they heard a loud, painful cry. Stiles knew it was Derek immediately. He tried not to think about how if the same sound was taken down an octave and slowed, it would sound like the groan Derek made when he came.

Stiles was blushing as he and Isaac booked it over to where Derek was hunched over, hands on his knees and Boyd and the pitching coach were staring at him looking completely helpless.

Stiles forced himself to hold back as Isaac stopped dead in his tracks beside him. There was some kind of man code that prevented him from rushing to Derek's side, like he had to give Derek a chance to straighten up and kick their asses for even thinking that he was wussy enough to need help. And he didn't want to accidentally expose that he had more than friendly feelings toward Derek by making it obvious that he was genuinely worried about Derek's well-being.

But after a few seconds of gawking, Stiles realized how stupid it was. If Derek wasn't seriously injured, he would have already done something to indicate he was okay, a growl at least. And it was no secret that Derek got along better with him than anyone else on the team, so he approached slowly. 

“Your knee?” he asked, keeping his voice calm.

“Yeah.” Derek's voice cracked the tiniest bit, though Stiles could have been imagining it. 

But when Derek lifted his head, Stiles could see he was clearly in a lot of pain. 

“Deaton?”

Derek nodded.

Stiles moved toward him and wordlessly started rearranging Derek so Stiles was acting as a crutch, with Derek's arm draped over his shoulders.

“All right?”

Derek grunted in response.

“Need any help?” Boyd asked as he finally jogged over.

“Nah,” Stiles said. It would have been helpful. Boyd was hulking, huge for a catcher, but somehow Stiles knew Derek wanted to minimize the number of people who saw him vulnerable. 

“I know I look puny, but underneath the skin and bones and sarcasm, I am actually a highlander.”

“A highlander, I thought there could be only one?” Isaac quipped.

“There was a summit. We signed a treaty. I don't want to get into it,” Stiles said. Waving the arm that wasn't wrapped tightly around Derek's waist. “Really, after the highland games, lugging around 200 pounds of grumpy pitcher is nothing.”

Derek huffed at being called grumpy, but Isaac, Boyd, and the coach backed off. Stiles made it into the building before he started his inquiry. 

“You going to tell me what happened or are you going to be all stoic and brood in tortured silence?” Stiles asked as soon as they were out of earshot.

“With you, there won't be silence,” Derek muttered, but there wasn't malice in his voice.

“Well, since everyone else is acting like lending a shoulder is on par with entering a cage with a rabid wolf in it, you're stuck with me.”

“I don't bite,” Derek huffed.

“I have it on very good authority that you do.”

Shit. Stiles froze, jostling Derek in the process. 

“Sorry. Can we pretend I didn't say that here?”

“We're alone, Stiles.”

“Yeah, but these walls have ears.”

As if on cue, Deaton came around the corner.

“I heard you aggravated your knee.”

“Word travels fast,” Stiles answered. “Is there a Deaton Signal or something?”

“Cell phones, Stilinski. They're very popular in the 21st century, even pitching coaches know how to use them.”

“You get signal down here in the cave? I need to switch providers. I'll bet you five dollars I only have one bar right now. Who do you use?”

A grunt from Derek shut Stiles up. 

“Oh, right, sorry. To the training table!”

Deaton took up position on Derek's other side and helped Stiles the rest of the way into the training room. Once Derek was situated on the table, and Deaton ordered him to take off his pants, Stiles knew he should leave. But, well, an opportunity to see Derek pantless was an opportunity to see Derek pantless. Plus, he was genuinely concerned.

Neither Deaton nor Derek seemed surprised or bothered by his presence, so he sat back on the other training table and tried to keep his mouth shut.

“The ligament just isn't healing right,” Deaton said after a minute of poking and prodding.

“Surgery,” Derek said plainly.

“At this point, I think it's your only option.”

Knee surgery was pretty much the last thing any professional athlete wanted to hear. For pitchers, a torn rotator cuff might have been worse, but it was a toss up.

“Can I finish off the season first?”

“It'll make it worse.”

They were both dancing around the issue, but it was pretty clear to Stiles that he was witnessing the end of Derek Hale's major league career.

Although his face remained stony, Stiles could almost feel Derek's heart racing in panic.

“It's not the end of the world, Derek.”

Derek closed his eyes and shook his head. 

“There are a lot of other avenues you could take—coaching, scouting. You could finish your degree. You studied biology, right? Didn't you once have an interest in sports medicine?”

Derek winced visibly at “sports medicine.”

Stiles made a mental note to look for a connection that would explain his reaction.

“It doesn't have to be something, at least not right away, it could be someone.”

Stiles could have sworn he felt Deaton's eyes on him as he said it, but when he looked up, Deaton was looking at Derek, reverting the conversation back to the specifics about what kind of knee surgery he would need. 

Eventually Deaton kicked Stiles out because he was supposedly violating doctor-patient confidentiality by being there at all, but Stiles knew it was more likely that Deaton was not appreciative of his humming “Take Me Out to the Ballgame,” Ernie-style, on repeat. Derek didn't seem to mind, but then, he didn't insist that Stiles stay either. 

The humming was a nervous habit. He did it without thinking sometimes, when he was trying to work through a puzzle. Part of him wanted to stick around to make sure Derek was okay, but he had a feeling Derek was one of those “want to wallow in self-pity alone” types, so he shot him what he hoped was a “you don’t have to be alone if you don’t want to be” glance and took his leave.


	6. Chapter 6

As soon as Stiles got home, he fired up his computer and tried every combination of search terms he could think of to associate Derek to sports medicine in some way. But he came up frustratingly with nothing. 

Amazingly enough, it was Scott who actually came through for him. Stiles called him that night just to check in and see how he was adjusting to his new gig. 

“So Mr. Big League, how is living the good life?”

“What do you think major league ball players do? Sip champagne and entertain high class call girls every night?”

“Yes. And if you shatter that image for me right now, I will show Allison your freshman yearbook photo.”

“You're jealous of call girls that don't exist and that you wouldn't even be remotely interested in?”

“That's not the point. The point is that you're living it up and I'm in Buffalo, and Allison is going to see you in all your Scott Stapp glory.”

“Oh, I don't think she will.”

“I didn't think you were the type to resort to bribery, McCall.”

“Oh, I don't have to bribe you. I have bargaining power.”

“I don't consider a souvenir McCall jersey to be bargaining power.”

“You've just spoiled your Christmas present, but that's not it.” Scott finished in a sing-songy voice. “I know something you don't know.” 

Stiles actually jumped in his seat. “What? What do you know? Is it about Derek? What is it?”

“Funny how you go right to Derek, isn't it?”

“Shut up and tell me. You know how I hate secrets.”

“Do you want me to shut up or do you want me to tell you? Because I don't know if I want to tell you now. You did threaten humiliation.”

“You're breaking my balls, here, you know that right? You are killing me in the worst possible way imaginable.”

“All right, all right.”

Scott was horrible at keeping secrets. Their friendship hinged on this. The fact that he didn't spill whatever it was within five seconds of Stiles answering the phone might have been some kind of record. 

“Well, I was talking to Allison yesterday, and don't roll your eyes.”

“There is no way you could tell I was rolling my eyes.”

“I could hear it.”

“Oh. My. God. Just tell me.”

“She seemed down, so I asked why.”

“Being the sensitive, highly evolved male that you are.”

“Do you want to hear this or not?”

“I'll shut up.” 

“No you won't.”

“Get on with it.” Stiles was actually getting exasperated.

“Anyway, it turns out that yesterday was her aunt's birthday. I mean, it should have been. Her aunt died last year.”

“Oh, wow, that's too bad, man. The first time through all the holidays is rough,” he replied quietly. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Allison mentioned that her aunt used to date Derek.”

“Fuck.”

“Right?”

“When?”

“Allison didn't say. Just that it ended messily and she remembered her aunt and her dad getting into a fight about it.”

Stiles' brain started racing. 

It was one mystery solved. Just when Stiles thought maybe he was starting to understand Derek Hale, things had to get more complicated with a dead ex-girlfriend who happened to be the sister of his team's owner. 

Stiles had maybe, sort of, already tried to Google information on Derek's past girlfriends. He had actually been looking for signs of past _boyfriends_ , but Derek somehow managed to escape the ubiquitous gay rumors that came attached to celebrity. He remembered there had been a picture of him with a Katie, before the Victoria's Secret model, but her last name wasn't given, so he didn't make the connection.

He grabbed his laptop and pulled up Google.

“Stiles? Are you still there? You're already doing internet research on her, aren't you?”

The first page of results for Kate Argent was about her death. Stiles had vaguely remembered hearing something about it in the news, but he didn't remember any of the details. Apparently it was a pretty gruesome hunting accident. She had been hunting, with some of the players no less, and had apparently separated from the group. They had been tracking a deer and saw movement. No one was sure whose shot it was that hit her. According to the coroner's report, the shot wasn't what killed her, but it had propelled her body into a ravine and she didn't survive the fall. It had taken a rescue crew days to even get to her body. It was deemed a horrible freak accident, and no charges were ever filed. 

There was no mention of Derek in any of the articles, though. For some reason that made Stiles feel reassured, which probably made him a terrible person. He didn't want to be a substitute for some great lost love whose life was tragically cut short. But Derek was well-known enough, it would have gotten mentioned if they had still been dating at the time.

It was on the second page of results that things started to get even more interesting. Apparently Kate worked for the Phillies. 

“Geez, was the whole family in the baseball business?” Stiles muttered.

“Stiles!” Scott shouted, making Stiles jump. 

“Sorry, man, look I have to—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Scott replied. “You have to get back to your Google fu.”

“You learn quickly, young grasshopper.”

“Weirdo,” Scott said affectionately, before hanging up.

Stiles quickly learned that Kate was the team doctor, and had been one of the subjects of investigation during the infamous doping scandal a couple years prior involving a few of their sluggers. There hadn't been enough evidence to prosecute anyone, but it had tainted their playoff berth that year.

There was a quote from Gerard Argent accompanying one of the articles responding to the “unjust allegations that had no basis in reality” and that “Miss Argent, my daughter, takes her Hippocratic oath as seriously as the Phillies organization takes the rules against performance enhancing drugs.” 

Stiles couldn't work out the timeline. He didn't know when or for how long Derek had been dating her, but if it ended “messily,” suddenly made sense why Derek flinched when Deaton had mentioned sports medicine. 

In Stiles' gut, he knew Derek had never used steroids. He saw the way Derek trained. When they were in the weight room, he would go into a Zen-like state while he lifted, like there was something calming about the intense exertion. Stiles always loathed lifting, or any kind of regulated exercise, really, and the first time he complained about it to Derek, the pitcher had looked at him like he had grown a third head.

But his ex-girlfriend, the daughter of the creepiest old man Stiles had ever seen, had been accused of helping players on her team dope. Allegedly the doping had gone on for years before an anonymous source blew the whistle. 

Stiles did as much sleuthing as he could, and he figured out that Kate went to med school in New York; that had to have been where she met Derek. She had worked for the Phillies for years before the scandal, so Stiles guessed, hoped really, that they had dated before then. Still, if it was so long ago, Stiles was really starting to wonder about this “ended sort of messily” business. 

There were still so many questions, and Stiles had to bite them all back when he saw Derek at practice the next day.

Stiles half expected Derek to pull away after finding out about his knee. After what he had shared about his sister, Stiles had been wavering on the “emotionally constipated” diagnosis he had given him. But basically being confronted with the end of his major league career, for someone whose whole life was baseball, well, Stiles actually wouldn't have blamed Derek for bringing back some of his customary scowls. But he didn't. 

He was acting normal, like, normal-human-being normal. He was dressed for practice but was standing on the sidelines next to the pitching coach, his knee wrapped. First, Stiles caught him joking around with a stunned Jackson. Then, he actually complimented Isaac when he made an impressive catch of one of Greenberg's wild pitches. 

But the real clincher happened after practice.

Stiles thought that he and Isaac were the last two to leave, and as they were going out to their cars, he and Isaac started reminiscing about when they used to have social lives that included a healthy dose of glitter and go-go boys. So Isaac suggested on their next road trip they sneak off and find a club where they could blow off some steam. 

“It's not like anyone would recognize us,” Isaac insisted. “And it's not like we're under house arrest.”

It would be nice to be able to just go out somewhere and be, well, out. Stiles always tried to tell himself that he was okay with the state of macho heterosexuality in professional sports. His sex life wasn't anybody's business, and he was never serious enough about anyone to have a long-term partner to lie about. So no one got hurt. But on days when he was being really honest with himself, he could admit that part of him hated always feeling slightly on edge, having to give vague answers when his teammates asked him completely innocuous questions about his personal life. He never quite got to be 100% Stiles Stilinski. He was always just a reasonable facsimile. 

“Fine, yeah,” Stiles finally conceded. “My dancing shoes haven't gotten any play in ages.”

“Have _you_ gotten any play in ages?”

Stiles blushed. He didn't like lying to Isaac, but there was no way he could tell him the truth. 

“A gentleman never...” he started, but the rest of the words died on his lips as Isaac smacked him on the arm.

Stiles looked where Isaac was trying not to obviously gesture. Derek was leaning against Stiles' Jeep.

“What does he want?” Isaac asked.

“No clue,” Stiles choked out, trying to come up with something he could tell Isaac that had nothing to do with why he _hoped_ Derek appeared to be waiting for him. “I mean, we had planned an extra practice today, but I just figured because of his knee...”

Luckily, he was saved by the bell. Isaac's phone went off with the ring tone that Stiles now knew belonged to Isaac's boyfriend. Isaac gave a wave to Derek and punched Stiles in the arm with a quick “sorry,” before he answered the call and headed toward his own car.

“Bringing your stalking racket to daylight hours, I see.”

“I like to keep the stalkee guessing.”

“I appreciate that. No one likes a predictable stalker. That was my last stalker's problem. It was always outside of work, outside of the house, outside of practice. Made it _way_ too easy to slap a restraining order on him, so kudos.”

“I was going to ask you to dinner. But Peter just called and he's in town again, only for the next two nights, so...”

“It's okay, some other time?”

“Definitely,” Derek said with a smile. 

Stiles didn't know what to make of the shift in Derek's behavior, but if he kept smiling like that, Stiles' brain was going to permanently short-circuit. Before he could regroup enough to come up with a witty retort, Derek continued, “You know since McCall is gone, you're getting a new roommate on the road, and I'm the only one who rooms alone.”

“Are you kidding me?” 

He didn't know whether to be pumped or horrified. Hotel walls were thin, too thin to try anything even remotely sexual. On the other hand, being in a small, enclosed hotel room with Derek made a very vivid image pop into Stiles' head, of Derek stepping out of a tiny hotel bathroom, steam from the shower swirling around him, the always-too-small hotel towel wrapped precariously around his hips. 

Before Stiles quite knew what he was saying, the words were out of his mouth. “So, there's this gay club in Toledo that a friend of mine was telling me about. Do think maybe you'd want to check it out with me? I mean, the odds of anyone recognizing you in Toledo are about zero, right? I was kind of surprised they even have gay clubs in Toledo. Though, that's where Max Klinger was from, and he was totally into the drag thing so maybe I shouldn't be surprised.”

“Stiles.”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up.”

“Okay, right. I'll just—”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“I'll go with you. To the club.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

“Look, I have to meet Peter. I'll see you tomorrow.”

For a second it looked like Derek was going to lean in and give Stiles a kiss, but then the reality of their surroundings seemed to hit him, so he shot Stiles an awkward smile and ducked into his Camaro.

As soon as Stiles got home he called Isaac. 

“So, as it turns out, a uh, friend of mine is going to be in the Toledo area when we are. Do you mind if I invite, uh, someone friendly to the cause?”

“So you do have friends other than McCall?” Isaac laughed. “And now I'm trying to picture Scott in a gay club, and nope. It's not happening. He's straighter than straight.”

“Are you kidding me? Scott went with me to my first gay bar for moral support. We were 16 and had fake IDs. He's like a lesbian magnet. I get the queens, he gets the dykes. It's how we rolled in high school.”

It sounded like Isaac was choking with laughter. “Please tell me there are pictures.”

“Actually, I'm pretty sure there are, tucked away in an undisclosed location that I am never, ever telling you about. Ever.” Stiles didn't tell Isaac about the time his friend Ginger Snaps decided to dress him up in drag and a very drunk Scott almost hit on him before he realized it was Stiles under the wig and makeup. 

Scott insisted that it was due to the fact that Stiles had killer legs (yes, he was comfortable enough with his sexuality to admit that much) but mostly that he was too drunk to look any closer. They had never spoken about it again, except when Scott, who clearly never learned his lesson, got too drunk and decided to over share. In fact, maybe it was a good thing he had gotten called up; it was only a matter of time before he blabbed the sordid details of their high school years to Isaac and Boyd.

“So, you don't mind if my, uh, friend knows that you're gay? Because if you're uncomfortable with it, I will totally tell him it's off.”

“It's one of the Mudhens, isn't it?”

“No! Definitely not. But I can 100% guarantee you that he won't breathe a word of it to anyone.”

Isaac was silent for beat. “Yeah, I don't mind. But you're being really shady about this, so I'm going to think it's Chris Argent or something unless you tell me otherwise.”

“Oh my god, it's not Chris Argent. Though, well, he's kind of hot for an old dude.”

“I am _so_ telling Erica you said that, and you know she'll tell Allison.”

“Like you don't agree!”

There was another gap of silence before Isaac replied. “All right, fine. Now, let us never speak of this again.”

“Deal.”

Stiles then called Derek to confess that the “friend” who wanted to take him out was actually Isaac. He felt bad not telling Isaac outright that it was Derek who was coming with them. But part of him wanted to see the look of surprise on Isaac's face, and part of him thought Derek would bow out of their plans altogether. 

Stiles was actually shocked when Derek didn't say no flat out.

“Isaac's cool. I mean, I haven't told him about you, but there's sort of mutually assured destruction there, because he doesn't want to be outed either.” 

“I kind of knew about him anyway,” Derek said.

“Really?”

“Yeah, it's just, it's not one of those things you bring up. And Stiles, it's okay if he knows about u- uh, me and y—”

There was a pause and some crackling on Derek's end of the phone.

“There's one more thing,” Stiles started in, trying to cover the awkwardness with even more awkwardness. “And don't get mad at me for asking, but well, I sort of know you have a history, and do you mind going to a bar? Because I went through this with my dad and I know he couldn't be in the same room with any kind of liquor, and I don't want to presume I know anything about your, uh, situation.”

“Stiles,” Derek said, thankfully stopping him from continuing to ramble. “If I don't want to drink, I don't drink. I never felt like I had to. It was just easier to numb myself than deal with things, admittedly not the best coping mechanism. I know how bad that probably sounds, but you don't have to worry.”

“I'm not trying to be an asshole, I swear, but are you sure? With the news about your knee, I mean, it wouldn't be unheard of for someone to need a coping mechanism to deal with it.”

“I'm fine. Right now, I'm fine.” 

Stiles could almost hear Derek's teeth clenching and he put his hands up in surrender, even though Derek couldn't see the gesture. He didn't fully believe Derek. He didn't fully believe that Derek believed himself. He knew in the back of his mind that Derek wasn't fine, because he was clearly acting totally against character with his smiling and his seeming desire to engage in normal human activities. 

But he ignored it. 

He tried to fight it, but he was excited about the fact that Derek seemed to want to go out to a gay club with him, where they could touch each other and they wouldn't have to worry about people seeing them. Stiles wouldn't have to pretend to be straight or to laugh at the stupid comments his teammates made about women or make up excuses why he didn't want to go along to the strip club in Rochester.

Stiles was practically vibrating with nervous energy the next day.

When they were finally alone in their hotel room after the horrendous day of traveling, the first thing Derek did was pull Stiles into a searing kiss that left him panting. They had to leave right away for the stadium, but the promise of more lingered on Stiles' lips.

Boyd played that night, so Stiles and Isaac warmed the bench together. Stiles was fidgeting so much that Derek forgot about being the smiling, pod person he had been the last few days and glared at him from across the dugout. Isaac thought he was just excited, but he was actually horribly worried the night was going to wind up a huge disaster.

Stiles and Isaac managed to separate themselves after the coach's rousing post-game pep talk, involving insect metaphors that had Stiles so lost he couldn't even quip back to it, and before the rest of the team was out of the showers. Boyd had already agreed to cover for them in case anyone missed them, but everyone was exhausted from traveling on a game day so it was likely no one would notice. 

They took a cab to the hotel to change before the rest of the team got back and then headed for the club. When they arrived, Stiles texted Derek to let him know they were there. 

He didn't get a response. Instead, moments later Derek appeared at Stiles side, and Isaac looked like he might faint from shock.

“How are you so stealthy?” Stiles shook his head. “You're like a 200 pound, hairy ninja.” Derek was wearing a black tank and tight black jeans, and he looked like sex.

But at least Stiles wasn't gaping at him like Isaac was.

“You're-?” Isaac started.

“Bi,” Derek answered calmly. “Is that a problem?”

Isaac hesitated, and Stiles tensed. There was sometimes hostility toward bisexuality in the gay community. Isaac just hadn't seemed like the type who would be prejudiced against that sort of thing, and Stiles figured he was just processing the information. But then, Isaac ducked his head and smiled up at Derek through his eyelashes.

“I would have tried putting the moves on you before if I had known.” He glanced at Stiles. “But I'm guessing it's too late now.”

Stiles shook his head. “Dude. You have a boyfriend!” 

“Yeah, I think he'd be willing to share.”

Derek's mouth quirked in a half smile, but he didn't say anything. Instead, he sauntered up to the club entrance, where the bouncer looked him up and down twice and waved him through without asking for the cover.

Stiles figured Derek Hale had never paid a cover in his life. 

They went into the club together. There was bad dance music pumping so loud the walls were shaking, but it wasn't all that crowded.

Stiles was actually a little surprised himself that Derek seemed perfectly comfortable. Not because he wasn't gay, but more that he didn't seem truly comfortable anywhere that wasn't a baseball field. Eyes were on them as soon as they stepped out of the dark entryway, mostly on Derek, and Isaac, too, but Stiles could feel himself getting scoped out. 

He wondered if it was obvious they were professional athletes. They had been banking on their anonymity not being an issue in the middle of nowhere, Ohio. Usually there were enough men around who spent even more time in the gym than Stiles that he never really stood out. 

They hung out for a while at the bar, enough time for Isaac and Stiles to have a few shots and for Derek to nurse a Coke. Isaac started pestering Derek with questions, which got increasingly invasive the more he drank. Derek barely looked uncomfortable as he confessed that the first person he ever fooled around with was a guy, that he basically had to suppress that side of his sexuality when he started getting recognized in New York, and that he wasn't exclusively a top.

Stiles tried not to look as interested as he was, finding out details that probably would have taken him months to get out of Derek. Then Isaac's eyes grew wide and he started asking Derek which major league players were gay. 

“I don't know of all that many really,” Derek insisted.

“But that means you know of some,” Isaac countered.

“I'm not going to tell you.”

“What if we guess?” Isaac said as he grabbed Stiles' arm.

Stiles noticed Derek's eyes fixate briefly on where Isaac was clinging to him, but then Isaac started throwing out names and Stiles joined in. 

When they finally got an “I'm not saying a word” out of Derek, Isaac shouted, “I knew it!”

It was loud enough that people turned to look at them, so Isaac said, “Next round on me!” causing a raucous cheer to go up through the bar. 

Stiles and Isaac did another shot of something that tasted like birthday cake, and then Derek got up to take a piss and a clearly, very tipsy Isaac pulled Stiles onto the sparsely populated dance floor. 

“Humor me. You have no idea how much I miss home. I would kill to walk down Castro and feel the thrumming of bad techno in my gut and smell the sweat and cum in the air right now.”

“Sweat and cum? You're disgusting.”

“It'll make him jealous.”

“I'm in.”

Isaac threw his arms over Stiles' shoulders and Stiles grabbed his hips and they started grinding to the canned dance beats that were pulsing through the room. 

They had only been dancing for about a minute before Derek came stalking over, his eyes narrowed at Isaac. Stiles thought Derek was going to pull Isaac off him for a second, and he tried to convince himself that nope, that wouldn't have been hot at all. 

Of course, what Derek did instead was actually hotter. He pressed himself up against Stiles' back, digging his fingers into Stiles' hips, pressing his crotch against Stiles' ass, sandwiching him between the two men. 

“I'm pretty sure I had a recurring wet dream that started exactly like this when I was 14,” Stiles groaned. 

Isaac laughed, but Derek leaned forward and gave a low growl in Stiles' ear and then started moving his lips against Stiles' skin, sucking at his neck just hard enough not to leave a mark but to drive Stiles absolutely crazy.

The floor filled up more as they danced. It certainly wasn't San Francisco, but it was the best Stiles had felt in a long time. He was a ball player, a son, a friend, kind of a geek. But he was also a gay man, and even though it didn't completely define his identity, he had almost forgotten how good it felt to be out and proud.

Isaac had caught the eye of a pair of young men decked out in eyeliner and very little else, so he winked at Derek and Stiles and let himself get swept up in a glittery sandwich. 

Stiles turned and pressed himself against Derek even more. He wasn't drunk, but he was hoping he could blame it on the alcohol later if he needed to. Derek didn't have the same excuse, but he wasn't backing away even an inch. In fact, his hands tightened on Stiles' ass as Stiles started to grind against his thigh. 

Stiles knew he should probably back away a little, go back to slightly-more-casual dancing, temporarily ignore his increasingly-interested cock, and then maybe have a quick hand job back at the hotel. But he didn't want to wait. He wanted this moment, Derek grinding against him in the dim light of the club away from Argents and baseball and knee injuries and the major league.

When he didn't think he could take it any longer, he grabbed Derek's hand and practically pulled him down the hall and into the bathroom. There was absolutely nothing inconspicuous about their body language and what they were about to do. Stiles even got a high five from a guy who was zipping up at the urinal. Derek just let himself be manhandled into the bathroom stall, and Stiles dropped to his knees immediately, pawing at Derek's black jeans, unzipping them and pushing them open until he reached the prize. 

Derek was sweaty and sticky from dancing, and Stiles didn't care. The musky scent was driving him crazy. He licked once up Derek's cock before plunging his lips down on it. It was not the most elegant blow job Stiles had ever given. It was fast and sloppy, but Stiles was a man possessed. As soon as he started, he couldn't get enough.

Derek was groaning, pulsing his hips forward unconsciously, and it was making Stiles' own dick ache with need. He ignored it as best he could, pouring the frustration into his effort to make Derek come as quick and as hard as possible. 

He wasn't disappointed. Derek started to writhe against the stall wall, tensing right before he shot into Stiles mouth. 

Stiles sat back on his heels after licking around the head, catching the last lingering drops of cum. 

Derek's eyes were closed and his head was thrown back against the wall. He looked like he was about to sink to the ground.

“You'll be the end of me, Stilinski,” he muttered, and Stiles wondered if he was supposed to hear.

But then Derek's eyes snapped open and he looked down at Stiles, whose hand was involuntarily palming himself.

Derek advanced, pulling Stiles up so he was the one pressed against the cool metal wall. Derek's lips were back on his neck so fast, Stiles could only flail as Derek's hands worked his jeans open and his own cock out. He stopped moving his lips and his teeth against Stiles' skin only long enough to lick his hand, before jerking Stiles off with equal urgency.

“Fuck. Yes. Just like. Yes.” Between Derek's tongue and his hand, Stiles was rendered monosyllabic. 

He was so worked up, it didn't take Derek long to finish him off. Stiles drifted off into orgasmic bliss for a few seconds before he registered that Derek's arm was wrapped around him, holding him up, his head resting on Stiles' shoulder.

It was such an intimate position, Stiles didn't want to move, and it was really only the door swinging open that broke the moment. 

Once the other patron left, Derek and Stiles emerged and cleaned themselves up as best they could before going back into the club. They caught up with Isaac, who looked them both up and down and grinned.

“Well,” Isaac nearly had to shout over the music. “My night wasn't quite as enjoyable as yours, but I've gotten my dancing-with-twinks fix. Shall we?”

They shared a cab back to the hotel, Derek held Stiles' hand the whole way, even though he was turned slightly away, resting his forehead on the window. 

Stiles vaguely thought it was a bad idea, but when they slipped back into their hotel room, he was still flying high and lost all sense of self-preservation as he climbed into Derek's bed. He made a vague mental note to rumple the covers on the other bed before they left for the sake of appearances. Derek didn't put up and protest, curving himself around Stiles' back. The last thing Stiles remembered before he slipped into sleep was Derek nudging the back of his neck with his nose and planting a soft kiss at the top of his spine.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** Derek and Stiles talk about alcoholism in this chapter in a way that could possibly be triggering or seen as offensive. The plot requires that the unfortunate stigma attached to addiction be exploited, but the actions and opinions expressed regarding Alcoholics Anonymous and addiction are not my own. 
> 
> Also, I wish I could take credit for Coach Finstock's quote in this chapter, but it's taken from the 1985 masterpiece that was _Teen Wolf_.

When Stiles woke up the next morning the other side of the bed was not only empty, but cold. 

He sat up and rubbed his hand across his face, his voice scratchy as he quietly called out “Derek,” to the still dark room. There was no response. 

He tried to let it go, he did, but not hard enough, because his mind was still racing as he went down to grab breakfast. Did he do something wrong? Did Derek regret being out in public with him in a more-than-friendly setting? Was his knee hurting him? Was he freaking out about his career? Did creepy-ass Gerard Argent steal him away to his evil lair in the middle of the night? Hell, he could have been a sleepwalker for all Stiles knew.

“Where's the roommate?” Isaac asked, as Stiles plopped his tray down on the table where Isaac was seated next to Boyd.

“Fuck if I know,” Stiles grumbled.

Isaac quickly schooled his features, but Stiles noticed the concerned look.

“Does Hale even sleep?” Jackson appeared from somewhere, setting his tray down on the table and taking a seat, uninvited, next to Stiles. 

“Actually, he powers down like a robot,” Stiles said drily. “Maybe we should call the IT department to fix the glitch in his personality, too.”

Luckily Jackson laughed, but Isaac's wide eyes indicated that he and Stiles would be having a conversation later.

Stiles didn't see Derek until they arrived at the stadium. 

He actually breathed a sigh of relief. At least he knew Derek was okay. Immediately after, he berated himself for caring about Derek's well-being more than the fact that he was pissed off at him for whatever this freakout was. But he couldn't make Derek talk to him, past experience showed that was abundantly clear. 

When Stiles got back to the hotel after the game, another spent on the bench, there was already a Derek-shaped lump on the bed. Stiles knew he wasn't asleep. So he childishly decided to be as loud as possible as he changed, brushed his teeth, and got his computer out, before he put in his headphones and watched a movie.

Stiles played the third game of the series the next day. It wasn't his finest showing, that was for sure, and being preoccupied thinking about Derek wasn't helping. Greenberg was actually having a good game, but Stiles never communicated well with him and was struggling to keep up. During the seventh inning stretch even Finstock attempted to give him a pep talk. 

“Look Bilinksi, there are three rules that I live by: never get less than twelve hours sleep; never play cards with a guy who has the same first name as a city; and never get involved with a woman with a tattoo of a dagger on her body. Now you stick to that, and everything else is cream cheese.”

Stiles was rendered completely speechless by the attempt. He was so dazed, he managed to get beaned by a ball during his at-bat at the top of the eighth and got on base for the first time all game. 

Derek was called in in the ninth. 

Stiles could feel his glare from the mound as they warmed up. Stiles tried to ignore it. This was baseball and whatever one-sided freakout Derek was having had no place on the field. 

The batter came up and Stiles signaled for the first pitch like usual. It was a left-handed batter, and Stiles knew he always had trouble with a cutter. But when he signaled for it, Derek shook his head. Stiles rolled his eyes. It was the right call, but Derek was apparently set on being contrary. His first pitch, which might have been an attempt at a splitter, ended up being wild.

After a rather impressive diving catch, if he did say so himself, Stiles immediately called a timeout. He waved Finstock and the pitching coach away and stalked up to the mound.

“Look,” he hissed. “I don't know what the fuck is going on in your head, the role of Carnac the Magnificent has already been played. By Johnny Carson. It was hilarious. But whatever. You're going to pull your head out of your ass and deal with your shit off the field. Whatever you think, you're not a washed-up has-been yet. It's just nine pitches. And then you can go flip out and pretend I don't exist all you want.”

He didn't wait for Derek to reply. He stalked back to the plate. 

Derek struck out the next three batters. 

Stiles slept in Boyd and Isaac's room that night. Boyd chalked it up to Derek being a pain-in-the-ass, and Stiles tried his damnedest to avoid Isaac's prying eyes. 

Derek didn't say a word to him the entire trip back to Buffalo.

Stiles didn't make any effort to talk to him either. Derek had it easy, though. He was the aloof major leaguer with the grumpy mystique. Stiles was the garrulous, non-mopey one who usually went out of his way to include Derek in conversations. Thankfully Derek had shoved earbuds into his ears, the universal sign for, “I know we're all traveling together, but don't talk to me.”

So, Stiles had to pretend that nothing was wrong, and maybe he overdid it a little. He had the whole team in a raucous uproar when he did his Coach Finstock impression. He was halfway through his version of Finstock doing Samuel L. Jackson's speech from Pulp Fiction when he could practically feel Derek's staring at him. He glanced out of the corner of his eye, and sure enough, Derek's eyes were fixed on him. His eyes looked so hollow and despondent, Stiles stumbled over the next few words.

The next day was their day off, and Stiles finally decided that he was being childish. The look in Derek's eyes haunted him a little; Derek wasn't just blowing him off, there was more going on, and it wasn't like Derek had a lot of people to confide in, at least that Stiles knew of. 

He was looking for his phone so he could call Derek when he heard it beeping from inside of his gym bag. He almost dropped it when he saw there was a text message from Derek. It read, “Fckkkin nnnte yuu.”

Stiles stared at the screen dumbfounded. It was coherent enough not to be some kind of weird pocket-induced mistake text. The first word look like “fucking” and the last word was definitely “you,” but the middle word was a mystery. The bigger mystery though, was why he was getting a drunk text from Derek. Derek, who, shit, probably should have been at an AA meeting instead. 

“Fuck,” Stiles said out loud as he headed out of his apartment in a rush.

He broke a few laws on his way to Derek's place. Luckily, the Camaro was in the parking lot, so he knew Derek was home or at least hadn't wrapped it around a tree. He knocked for a solid minute, shouting increasingly angry variations of “come and open the door, you fucking idiot, I know you're in there,” before he heard rustling through the door. 

Stiles barely recognized Derek’s voice when he finally answered, “I'm coming, I'm coming.” 

It was another minute before the door swung open.

“Stiles,” Derek said slowly, a sloppy smile on his face, his eyes red and bleary.

Yep, Derek was definitely drunk. And by the look he was giving Stiles, he had been using the word “fckkkin” as a verb—and an invitation. 

Stiles sighed and pushed passed Derek into the apartment. It was dark and it smelled stale, impressive for only being back for a little over a day, and there was a mostly empty whiskey bottle on the coffee table in the living room.

“Coping mechanism,” Stiles snorted. “I should have known.”

He turned toward Derek and was about to give him the talking down to of all talking down tos, but Derek's appearance stopped him. His head was hanging down, his shoulders were slumped, and he was wobbling on his feet. He didn't look ashamed so much as utterly defeated. 

“It was just a lapse. I swear, Stiles. I used to do this every night after mom and dad. And Laura. And Kate and Peter.” He started shaking his head. “It doesn't bring them back or fix anything and I don't want to do this tomorrow.”

“You're probably going to feel like shit tomorrow,” Stiles conceded. He was fighting everything in him not to ask about Kate. Or Peter. What did Peter have to do with any of this? 

“Prob'ly” was Derek's barely-coherent reply, his eyes starting to droop. 

“Oh for fuck's sake,” Stiles muttered as he went to the now-swaying Derek's side and helped him down the hallway.

“Ugh, it's déjà vu of the worst kind. You're heavy,” Stiles complained, as they finally reached Derek's bedroom. 

Derek basically fell onto the bed in a heap and Stiles didn't have the energy to rearrange him. Instead, he dug around Derek's bathroom for a wastebasket and some aspirin, and then went to the kitchen for a glass of water, bringing everything back to Derek's bedside.

He thought Derek was passed out, but then he heard a groan.

“You're not Robin,” Derek said very clearly, almost sounding coherent.

“What was that?”

“You're not Robin. You're not a sidekick,” Derek repeated. 

Stiles was too taken aback to reply at first, and he was grateful Derek was too out of it to see his blush. “All right, drunky,” he said with a nervous chuckle.

“If you can be happy with this, with playing in the minors, then maybe....” Derek trailed off. He was out cold.

Stiles made sure Derek was in a position where he wouldn't choke on his vomit, and then he slipped out of Derek's apartment. Part of him really wanted to stick around just to make sure Derek really was okay, but the way Derek ran hot and cold made him wary of what the morning would bring. He doubted Derek would even remember that Stiles had shown up. 

Derek clearly needed a friend, but Stiles wasn't sure he could do it. He'd always had a poor sense of self-preservation, especially when it came to dating, but he was more conscious of it the older he got. He knew he liked Derek more than he should; he just didn't want to be Derek's crutch.

Stiles didn't sleep when he got home that night. 

If Stiles had learned anything from his dad, it was that addicts lied. His dad was nearly eight years sober, but it had been rough going when Stiles was a teenager. His dad had just lost his wife and was left to raise Stiles by himself, and maybe that was a reason for drinking but it didn't excuse it. His dad felt guilty for basically orphaning his child after he lost his mother. 

Stiles remembered his dad telling him he had to work late and Stiles, so afraid he would lose his dad, would stay up into the wee hours of the morning, listening to the police scanner, just to make sure nothing dangerous was going on in Beacon Hills that could take his dad away. He would end up falling asleep on the sofa and then be awakened when his dad stumbled home, having the decency to take a cab, banging through the front door, drunk. 

The thing with Derek, though, was that he didn't act anything like Stiles' dad had. He seemed damaged and the more Stiles learned about Derek, the more he realized that to say the man had been dealt a shitty hand was putting it lightly. But Stiles found himself believing Derek that it was a lapse and not a bender. Stiles had been in his company all night in a bar, and he never got that desperate twitch his dad got when he was in the vicinity of alcohol. He was definitely sober at the game. He had waited until he had a day off to take a drink. It just didn't fit the unofficial story Chris Argent had led the rest of the organization, Derek's teammates, and even the media to believe. 

He never said outright that Derek was a recovering alcoholic who should be grateful for the chance to play in the minors, but it was alluded to in press releases and even in last Sunday's write up about Chris Argent in _The Buffalo News_. It wasn't a hidden fact that Derek took more piss tests than anyone else on the team and attended AA meetings. 

But Stiles' gut told him that not everything was as it seemed, and he was determined to get to the bottom of it. 

He weighed his options. He could go up to the team owner and demand to know the details of Derek's injury, potential drinking problem, and getting knocked down to the minor leagues. That would go over well, because Chris Argent was a basket of kittens and his father didn't have crazy eyes. If Stiles knew anything from obsessively watching true crime stories on TV, it was that when someone has crazy eyes, they were usually, well, crazy. All things considered, asking Derek directly was the least scary of the two. Not to mention, he didn't have any right to ask the team owner for that kind of information about another player.

Derek didn't look nearly as bad as someone who had drunk himself into a stupor should look the next day. He was doing his best to avoid making eye contact with Stiles in the weight room, and Stiles could practically feel the embarrassment rolling off him, but Stiles wasn't having any of it. He waited until Derek was doing deadlifts before marching right up to him and giving him a hard poke in the chest.

“We're talking after practice. Non-negotiable.”

Then he spun on his heel and went back to spot Isaac on the bench.

“Don't,” he snapped as he looked down at Isaac's questioning face. But then Isaac's eyes softened with concern, and Stiles felt his anger dissolving.

“Sorry. I'll fill you in later. If there's something to fill in. Worst case scenario, I'm a douche magnet.”

“I don't think—” Isaac started, but then he glanced over at Derek who shot him his patented glare. “Later, then.”

Stiles made a point to book it out of practice, so he was waiting by Derek's Camaro before the pitcher could make a quick getaway.

“My place or yours. You pick.”

Derek furrowed his brow and adopted a defensive posture, making a move to cross his arms.

“I'm immune to it now, you know. You might be able to glare Isaac into submission, but it doesn't work on me. I'm rubber and you're glue, so you're really just glaring at yourself right now.”

The corner of Derek's mouth twitched in amusement, but he didn't reply. 

“Your place it is!” Stiles announced. “I'll follow you.”

He climbed into his Jeep, leaving Derek to either continue standing there dumbfounded or just give in. Luckily Derek seemed to know that he wasn't going to win, so he got into his Camaro and peeled out of the parking lot. 

“Nice try,” Stiles muttered to himself as he floored it. 

Derek decided to drive like an adult for the rest of the journey to his apartment. He even waited for Stiles to park. He was still silent as he walked up to his apartment, though, with Stiles trailing along behind him. 

As soon as they reached the door, Derek spun around. “We don't have to do this.”

“Do what? Talk? Normal people talk, Derek. Syntactical language is what separates us from the animals. Look at me doing it right now! See how easy it is!”

Stiles took the keys out of Derek's hand and basically forced his way into the apartment. The fresh smell of laundry hit Stiles' nose in stark contrast to the way he had left it the night before. Derek had obviously been airing out the place all day.

“Look, I know I haven't been dealing with my knee or what it means to not play ball anymore. I was pretending everything was okay, and, what do you know, denial didn't make me feel any better. I'm sorry if I slighted you in the process.”

Stiles blinked. He wasn't actually expecting Derek be that forthcoming or offer an apology, even one that came out partially sounding like an insult. It looked like Derek was about ready to shove Stiles out the door, but this wasn't over, not by a long shot.

“Sorry you slighted me? Slighted me? You bailed and then ignored me. Again. But I'm trying to give you the benefit of the doubt here. I shouldn't have pushed you into going out with me and Isaac. If that's what triggered this—” he waved his arms because he still wasn't entirely sure what “this” was.

“That wasn't why I bolted, Stiles. Or why I came back from Toledo and tried to numb myself into not thinking for a few hours.”

Stiles wanted to shout “well why _did_ you bolt?” but Derek was rubbing his hand across his face, and it started to sink in that this wasn't about him, not really. Whatever they were doing was going to have to wait until Derek got his shit sorted out. He just selfishly wanted a sign that there was something there worth waiting for.

“You're not an alcoholic,” Stiles finally said.

Derek's eyes widened in surprise at the turn in conversation. “It's just splitting hairs. I used to drink a lot. Right after the injury especially.”

“But everyone thinks you're not only an alcoholic, but probably an addict of any number of things. That Chris Argent is taking a huge chance on you, as this great act of charity. Giving a talented, down-on-his-luck baseball player a second chance.”

“He is taking a huge chance on me, Stiles. Yeah, I never wanted to do this AA business in the first place. It's not my style. I'm not really into the whole turning my will over to a higher power thing, but my life was a mess. Even if my knee wasn't fucked up, I would have only had a few more years left anyway.”

“But you're letting yourself be lumped in with Darryl Strawberry and Steve Howe and Rod Scurry. I mean, this is your legacy. If people think you're as screwed up as they were it could ruin any chance you have of coaching or broadcasting or endorsing local furniture stores in TV commercials that air only in Buffalo.” 

“I'm not doing TV spots for furniture stores in Buffalo.”

“That's not the point! Look, my dad, he is an alcoholic. I didn't know he was until my mom died and he relapsed, and, well, it was rough going for awhile. And it's not a big deal if you _are_ , but you have, like, zero signs of addiction, let alone of an alcoholic relapse. You drank too much by yourself one night. Some people have to go all or nothing because they really can't stop, but you obviously don't, and it's not affecting your playing. I'm willing to bet that even when you were drinking, it's never affected your playing. It's just a label you've been saddled with for reasons I don't understand.”

“It doesn't matter, Stiles. I agreed to the clause in my contract. It was either that or not play ball. Chris wasn't willing to trade, and my agent thought it was unlikely I'd get a better offer.”

“So he's basically publicly shaming you because of the stigma that's attached to addiction, and you just accept it because you think it's your only option.”

“Well...”

“Or because you think you deserve it. You think you deserve it, don't you? You're punishing yourself for something. I played second best to Scott McCall for most of my life. I mean, not in anything involving raw intellect. I love Scott like a brother, but he's not going to dazzle anyone with his wits. He gets George Clinton confused with Bill Clinton. Anyway, point being, I know all about self-loathing.” 

“I'm not—”

Stiles put his hand up. “If you're getting defensive, I will take that as a clear sign you don't want to talk about it to me. I'm just saying that you can. I don't know why I care so much, but I like you and you don't deserve it. Whatever it is you think you need to be punished for, you don't deserve it. And you don't deserve to have your career tarnished for it.”

Without another word, Stiles stepped around Derek and left his apartment, closing the door behind him with a quiet click.

All-in-all, it didn't go as badly as Stiles thought it might. Derek was at least talking to him again. Of course, it did nothing but give Stiles even more to think about.

He barely noticed the road on his drive home. Derek had serious issues that went deeper than grief over his family or the end of his career. It was sort of clear that he was not emotionally equipped to handle anything more than whatever it was they had going. An occasional fuck and maybe dinner once in a while? Stiles tried to be okay with that, he did, but he knew himself and he knew it wouldn't be enough. He didn't know what it was about Derek, but Stiles was already addicted. He always had a habit of falling for the unavailable; either they were dating someone else, they wouldn't give him the time of day, or they were emotionally constipated. Derek fell very squarely in the third. And every time, Stiles would feel inadequate, convincing himself he deserved the rejection. 

He could feel the throbbing of a headache starting to build behind his eyes, so as soon as he got home, he dug out a bottle of cold medicine that “may cause drowsiness” and crawled into bed.


	8. Chapter 8

Stiles was stiff as hell the next morning, body aching from staying in the same position for far too long during his medicine-induced sleep. He went to the training room as soon as he got to practice that day. 

Deaton was giving him the stare down even before he sat down at the training table.

“Do I have something on my face?” Stiles asked. 

“What did you say to Derek?”

“What makes you think I've said something to him?” Stiles asked. “Just because he says slightly more to me than the two words he gives to everyone else doesn't mean I have anything to do with him!”

Deaton actually rolled his eyes. 

“You might be able to fool your teammates, but anyone with a full deck could tell that isn't the case.”

“I- but I-”

Deaton put his hand up. “Well, something happened, because he told me that he was going to go ahead and schedule the surgery and would 'just take it one day at a time.'”

“Derek said that?”

“Calmly and rationally.”

Stiles threw his hands up in the air. “What do you expect me to say? Yeah, it's kind of out of character from the 'the universe pissed in my cornflakes' closer we all know and lo- er, li-, er, but so what? Maybe he had an Oprah “ah hah” moment while he was hanging out with Mr. Daniels. I didn't do anything!”

“Derek was drinking?”

Stiles was about to retort with a MAD Magazine-esque snappy comeback when he realized he didn't know if Deaton was ultimately Team Derek or Team Argent. And he didn't want to rat Derek out. Even if he was being a scowling, grumpy jerk.

“Uh, I wouldn't know.”

The unimpressed look Deaton gave him was even more unimpressed than any of his previous unimpressed looks. 

“Stiles. He called a meeting with Chris Argent today.”

“What?! You don't think he told him that he reneged on his contract, do you? When is the meeting? Can we stop him?”

“I think it's probably already over.”

“Um, you know what, I just remembered I have somewhere I need to be.”

Stiles didn't wait for Deaton's response, but he swore he heard a chuckle, although he told himself it was probably just a cough because the idea of Dr. Deaton laughing was like the idea of the Bills winning the Superbowl this year. 

Stiles tried to act nonchalant as he crept to the third floor where the offices were, thankfully not running into anyone on the stairs. 

Eavesdropping was starting to become a habit, but it wasn't his fault he had keen observational skills, was it? His dad was a cop. He had picked up a few things over the years. Hell, his dad gave him night-vision goggles for Christmas when he was 16. Of course, Stiles had actually asked for a taser. 

When he got close to Chris's office, he stopped and plastered himself against the wall. He heard the murmuring of voices get louder as he tiptoed sideways toward the door. 

Chris was raising his voice, but the responder wasn't who Stiles expected. Instead of Derek's baritone, he heard Gerard Argent's nasally voice very clearly. 

“He could have that contract nullified for it being unconscionable, son.” 

Stiles mouth dropped. Was Gerard defending Derek? 

Gerard continued, “If you cut him loose now, you won't be able to keep an eye on him.”

“He charges in here telling me that he's not checking in with his sponsor anymore, that if he's “forced” to do it, it's not genuine. That I can't keep dragging his name into the press. He's grown a spine. I don't want him around. Every time I see him, it's a reminder of Peter.” 

Peter? What did Peter have to do with this?

“So you're punishing the boy for the sins of his family.” Gerard's voice was so soft Stiles wondered if Chris was supposed to hear it.

Stiles could hear Chris's desk chair moving, and then the sounds of someone, likely Chris, pacing back and forth.

“Where is this coming from? Does he know something we don't? Do you think Peter told him something? Why could he possibly think he has bargaining power over us? We should have just gone to the police.”

“No!” Gerard practically shouted. 

He lowered his voice immediately, and Stiles strained to hear without moving any closer. Gerard's voice remained muffled until Stiles clearly heard phrase “obstruction of justice” and minutes later, the sneered words, “He was supposed to be keeping busy with his little boyfriend.”

Shit. 

Stiles didn't know how, but the Argents clearly knew about him and Derek. 

He had to bite the inside of his cheek to supress a groan. They had been discrete, very discrete, which either meant that Isaac said something—unlikely—or that the Argents were keeping a very close eye on Derek Hale. 

Stiles missed what Chris said to his father next, but he did catch Gerard's response.

“I don't think it's wise to let him go so easily. You shouldn't underestimate the power that fear wields.”

The weariness in Chris's reply was palpable. “I just don't know if I have it in me.”

“No, it seems you don't.”

Stiles recognized that tone of voice. It was the “I'm disappointed in you, son” voice. He had only heard it a few times in his life, but each time stuck with him vividly and filled him with remorse. He didn't want to hear anymore, so he crept back down the hall as fast as he could without making a sound. As soon as he was in the stairwell, he leaned back and banged his head against the wall. He was more confused than ever.

Reading between the lines, he had gathered that not only was Gerard Argent creepy and intimidating, he was also apparently involved in something illegal, and it seemed like he thought Derek was suddenly privy to information, possibly having to do with his uncle Peter, that could implicate Gerard.

Stiles was mechanical as he made his way down to the locker room to suit up for practice. He couldn’t stop running through the possibilities in his head. 

Practice passed by in a blur as Stiles’ suspicions grew more and more absurd. He hatched a kidnapping plot in which Gerard and Peter went to Cuba to smuggle baseball players out of the country, giving them fake Dominican passports. 

Stiles was vaguely aware of Derek asking him if he was okay at some point, which would have been strange any other day, and he remembered playing like crap. 

When Isaac confronted him after practice and forced him into hanging out with him, furniture shopping of all things, he knew he had obviously done a horrible job of playing it cool. 

“So, Derek seemed his usual charming self at practice today. You two kiss and make up?”

Stiles slapped his hand to his forehead. Had he been staring at Derek during practice? Clearly Isaac had interpreted his trying to figure out Derek's deal with the Argents as ogling with hearts in his eyes. 

“You're such a gossip.”

“Come on, man. It's either this or listen to Jackson talk about scoring with strippers when he obviously really wants a woman who will boss him around, and you don't even want to know the kinky shit Greenberg is into.”

“Greenberg? What is it? Golden showers? Furries? He's fucking the mascot isn't it? Wait! No! I bet he has a ventriloquist dummy fetish.”

“Is that even a thing? You're getting off topic. You and Derek. Spill.” 

Stiles ran a hand over his cropped hair. 

“What about this one?” He pointed to a table, trying to get Isaac off track.

“Too modern. And stop trying to distract me. Tell me.”

“Oh, you know. He flipped out a little, but it wasn't because of me. His knee, you know, it's bad and baseball is sort of all he has.”

“But you want him to flip out because of you.”

“What? No! That's ridiculous. Why would I want- okay, fine, yeah, it would be nice if he seemed as into me as I'm into him. It's not just because he is, without question, the hottest guy who has ever given me the time of day. Under all the eyebrows and stubble and glares, he's a good guy. He loves baseball as much as I do. He visits sick kids in the hospital because he wants to. He's funny.”

“Now that I don't believe.”

“He is. I mean, I guess it's no wonder he wouldn't be into me.”

“Uh, Stiles. I hate to be the one to break this to you, but one, you're a fucking catch and I won't hear any arguments to the contrary, and two, if Derek isn't interested in you, then I love pussy. When he saw us dancing together, he was jealous. Plus, you are the only person on this entire team he speaks to in full sentences.”

“That doesn't mean-”

“Talk to him, you idiot.” 

“I _did_. I tried, and he has a lot on his plate. I didn't want to push it.”

“Look. You can't always 'wait for the right time' or for someone to get their shit sorted, because the truth is there is no 'right' time and there is always going to be new shit that comes up. Sometimes you just have to take that leap, and maybe you get stuck taking on some of their burdens, but dude, you already are. There's something about the two of you. Whatever you think it is, this isn't just casual fucking. For either of you.”

“When did you get so smart?”

“Get so smart? Please. You know I was an Academic All-American, right? I have a degree in chemical engineering.”

Stiles actually hadn't known that about Isaac.

“Then what the hell are you doing playing triple-A ball in Buffalo?” 

“Same as you.” Isaac shrugged. “It's been my dream since I was a kid. I had to try.”

“Oh yeah, I can totally see the hot nerd thing now. You wear glasses, don't you? I bet you had fanboys in the engineering department. They'd think maybe they could have a chance, and then you'd mention that you were a baseball player and it would crush their dreams.”

“Stiles.”

“Yeah.”

“Talk to him.”

So, of course, Stiles didn't. 

Instead, he agonized over the conversation he had overheard between the Argents. He had no idea what Gerard Argent was capable of, and he was starting to worry if Derek was even safe. Gerard seemed disappointed that Derek had stood up to Chris, but there was also something sinister about the way he responded. It wasn't just curiosity anymore, Stiles had to get to the bottom of it. When he couldn't take anymore of that train of thought, he thought about what Isaac said. He was right, he already was taking on the burden of Derek dealing with his injury and the end of his career; he just wasn't talking to Derek about it. There was something holding him back, though, something he couldn't quite place. 

He tried to act normal and nonchalant the next day. He tried to rationalize his silence because it was a game day, and Derek was slated to close. He didn't get a chance to interact with Derek before the game, which was only partially intentional, but he couldn't help but notice that Derek kept glancing over at him in the dugout, his brow wrinkled in worry. He clearly knew that something was up with Stiles. 

Stiles tried to focus on the game and ignore Derek's imploring looks. He still had the conversation between the Argents in his head, and in spite of the fact that he knew Isaac was right, he just didn't want to deal with that, all of Derek's baggage, and the way he ran hot and cold. He was tired of being the one to take the initiative. It might have been petty, but he just wanted Derek to be the one to talk to him for a change.

After the game, he went to the locker room to grab his stuff, and he could feel eyes on him. Sure enough, Derek was looking at him with an exasperated expression. Part of Stiles wanted to go over to him, but another part just wanted Derek to make a move. The sexy confident Derek in the club had been reacting to a stressful situation, but that was still part of Derek. Stiles wanted that part. While he was having his internal war, his phone startled him, beeping with a text. And then he remembered something. 

He got up and stalked over to a startled Derek.

“Not here. Come to mine,” Stiles said.

“Okay,” Derek agreed slowly.

Stiles didn't wait for Derek; he went straight home and gave his apartment the five minute clean, taking dirty dishes to the kitchen and shoving clothes into his closet. The knock on his door didn't come much later.

Stiles swung open the door. The confusion was still there on Derek's face, and Stiles tried not to take any satisfaction in giving him a taste of his own medicine. The gloating dance he was doing in his head was quickly stopped when he fully took in Derek. He was wearing a thin white t-shirt, his leather jacket slung over his shoulder, and his hair was still wet from the shower. Stiles ushered him in and started talking. 

“We didn't finish our conversation the other day. At least, I didn't. And I was going to let it go, I was, but then I remembered something. _You_ texted _me_. You drunk texted me. And I know you're dealing with the knee and Chris Argent, and you probably don't want anything complicated. And I'm sorry if I've been coming on to strong or whatever, or if you regret hooking up with me.”

“That's not- that's not why I've been distant.”

“Look, we slept together. Three and a half times. It's not like I'm mooning over you or anything,” Stiles lied. 

“Oh.”

“Unless- unless you want me to be mooning? Because in spite of what I just said, I actually have it on good authority that I have, in fact, been mooning. You can ask Isaac. Or Scott, although Scott is still in an Allison haze and might not have noticed as much as he normally would. Plus, he doesn't like thinking about gay sex. His eyes get really big, like he's finding out that Santa Claus doesn't exist all over again.”

The fact that Derek didn't tell Stiles to shut up or stare at him like he wanted Stiles to shut up spoke volumes. Stiles trailed off.

“Fucking Deaton,” Derek scrubbed a hand over his face. “When he said I might need someone to make the adjustment to life after baseball easier, the only thing that I could think of was you. And I haven’t been able to stop.” 

“I- wait- really?”

“You're everything I'm not, Stiles.”

“What?”

“You're friendly and talkative and young, and you see life for its possibility. You're... happy.”

“Now, now, just because you're old in baseball years doesn't mean you're not still young. And you've gone through more shit than anyone should ever go through. It would be weird if you were completely well-adjusted. And for the record, I'm not always happy. I just, I made a decision after my mom died, a while after she died actually, that I was going to start appreciating my life, the good things and the bad things, and after I started doing that happiness was inevitable. But I still have my moments.”

Derek reached out and squeezed Stiles knee. They sat like that for a moment until Derek said quietly, “Why would you be interested in someone like me?”

“Are you serious, Derek? Why is it that the awesome people never know their own awesomeness? Because you're passionate and dedicated and delightfully sarcastic and underneath the grumpy demeanor, you're a genuinely good person.”

Derek closed his eyes and started to shake his head.

“And you're ridiculously hot. Like, your abs should probably be illegal, and not to be that guy, but your dick could probably be considered a deadly weapon. When we were dancing together in that club in Toledo, I could feel everyone in the room looking at me with these intense jealous glares, because even if you weren't their type, that night, you were their type. And you were mine.”

“So shallow,” Derek said, the corner of his mouth rising slightly. “And so wrong. I'm pretty sure those jealous looks were at both of us.”

“Toledo couldn't handle us.”

Derek leaned in for a kiss, which was the moment Stiles decided to blurt out, “Why did you go talk to Chris Argent two days ago?”

Derek looked panic-stricken for a split second and quickly pulled back, shaking his head slowly.

“I needed to talk to him about my contract. He's holding something over my head, and I was letting him.”

“There's more, isn't there?”

“I promised myself I wouldn't get involved with anyone unless they knew the truth, but then I- it's more complicated than that with you.”

“What are you talking about?”

Stiles thought again about the conversation he overheard between Gerard and Chris, bracing himself for whatever had made Gerard so distrustful of Derek.

“Kate Argent was my girlfriend. She was in med school when I first signed on with the Mets and was shadowing the trainer. I was 19 and she was this older woman who was interested in me, and I was this cocky kid who didn't even think twice.”

“I know she died. You don't have to-”

“No, I do. You're not going to find the real story online. The Argents have more influence than you know. They can keep things out of the news. They have power. And Kate, she wasn't really interested in me, she was interested in my uncle Peter. She recognized the Hale name. 

Derek paused and ran a hand through his hair. “I was this naïve teenager, and she used me. She convinced me that she loved me, that she wanted to meet what was left of my family. I convinced Peter to come out for a visit, and then she started sleeping with him. She and Peter were like gasoline and flame together. One time, she even threatened to burn his house down.”

“How Left-Eye of her.”

“What?”

“TLC. Don't go chasing waterfalls? Andre Rison? Nevermind. I don't understand why you're under the Argents thumb, then.”

“My uncle Peter killed her.”

Stiles jaw dropped. Out of all the things he was expecting to hear, that wasn't one of them.

“But it was a hunting accident.”

“They were so volatile, Stiles. They fought all the time, and he had been acting really erratic right before it happened. I wouldn't doubt it if he had been stacking. I can only imagine that they had been fighting and he just snapped and took advantage of the situation. Saw an opportunity and took it. He made it look like an accident; even the other guys they were hunting with were convinced it was. It was disturbingly clever, really, to have eye-witnesses to corroborate it. But I know it, and the Argents know it. And the only reason why my uncle isn't in jail right now is because there wasn't enough evidence to convict him.” 

“So Chris takes it out on you.” Stile said slowly, as he tried to wrap his mind around this development.

Derek nodded.

“That is, for lack of a better expression, fucked up.” Stiles cleared his throat and took a deep breath, trying not to let his mind start going in circles. “What I don't understand is why you blame yourself for this.”

The weariness in Derek's sigh was enough to break Stiles' heart a little. 

“It never would have happened if I hadn't dated her. She would never have gotten to Peter. She was the one who convinced Gerard to trade for him. He was supposed to be going to the Angels. She'd still be alive. My uncle wouldn't be a killer.”

Stiles put his hand on Derek's slumped shoulder, but Derek stiffened in response.

“That is a slippery slope, Derek. You don't know that. You don't know any of that. A butterfly flapping its wings in China could make the stock market collapse tomorrow.”

He didn't move his hand, tracing his fingers along Derek's back until he started to relax.

“Even if she was using me, she didn't deserve to die.”

“Why don't you go to the police about Peter?”

“I don't have any hard evidence. I just know.”

“And if you did have evidence.”

“It's fucked up, Stiles. It's so fucked up. He's the only family I have left.”

Stiles was silent. Stiles was never silent. He wrapped his arm around Derek's shoulders and he finally melted into Stiles' side.

“Now that,” Stiles whispered. “That I understand.”

The didn't have sex that night. They didn't even kiss. Derek was exhausted and asked if he could crash on the couch, Stiles made some weak joke about his virtue not needing protection and then tugged Derek into his bedroom. As Stiles drifted to sleep with his chest pressed against Derek's back, he couldn't help but think that maybe Derek didn't need a crutch. Maybe he just needed someone in his life who wouldn't disappear.


	9. Chapter 9

Something didn't sit right with Derek's story. 

Oh, Stiles was almost positive that Derek believed it. He was a one man self-loathing parade. Plus, after seeing Peter Hale the one time, he totally believed the man was capable of murder.

But Gerard and Chris's conversation didn't quite fit. If it had been cut and dry, they would have gone to the police and given some kind of evidence of Peter's involvement. It sounded like even Chris didn't understand why they hadn't. Which meant that everything pointed toward Gerard. 

That's when Stiles remembered Gerard's encounter with Peter in the children's hospital. He wouldn't have been so friendly with the man who killed his daughter unless a) he knew for a fact that Peter didn't do it, which meant b) he knew who had killed her, or worse, c) he had something to do with it. 

Triple-A ball had way more intrigue than Stiles had been prepared to handle.

He put Kate Argent's name back into Google and started re-reading all the articles he had before. The only thing that raised any red flags was the steroid scandal. She was working for her father's team at the time, and on the roster that year was Peter Hale. Suddenly everything started clicking, and Stiles didn't know why he hadn't made the connections before.

He paced around his apartment. He couldn't just go making wild accusations at people, but he couldn't ignore what was going on. Finally, he decided his only real choice was to go to the only Argent he thought he could trust―Allison. They had two things in common, an indelible love of baseball and an indefinable love of Scott McCall. He had to get her number from Scott, who was immediately suspicious until Stiles said that he wanted to make an effort to get to know better the woman his best friend was so stupid for.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“That's actually really cool of you.”

Stiles winced at the sincerity in Scott's voice. It wasn’t that Stiles didn’t like Allison, it was just that whenever they had hung out before, they always had Scott as a buffer. Between Lydia and now Erica, Stiles wasn’t sure he needed another badass chick meddling in his life. They could be scary with all their insightfulness and crap. 

He took a deep breath before calling. He was a little surprised when she answered her phone.

“Hey Allison! What's up?”

“Um, hi. Is this Stiles?”

“Yes! Sorry, I forgot you didn't have my number.” He launched into his spiel before she had a chance to reply. “So, I was thinking. Scott is my best friend, and he's pretty crazy about you, and we don't know each other all that well yet, so I thought I'd extend a branch, an olive branch, not that we weren't peaceful before or anything, but a branch. So we could actually be legit friends, and not just fellow Scott-lovers, ew, I didn’t mean it that way. Scott’s like my brother. Gross. Plus, he wouldn’t even kiss me during a game of spin the bottle in high school.” 

“Oh, okay, I- actually, that sounds nice,” she said. “Scott's crazy about me?”

“I've never seen him like this before, and I've known him since before he could dress himself, though, it's debatable whether he can do that now. Every time I talk to him on the phone he asks about you. I think it would mean a lot to him if we were friends.”

They made plans for the next evening. Even though Stiles invited Allison to dinner in order to get answers from her about her family, he actually found himself having a good time. She wasn't like Chris and even less like Gerard. She loved baseball as much as Stiles, and she actually seemed to genuinely like Scott. Stiles was actually reluctant to bring up the reason why he had asked her to hang out in the first place.

“So, this is going to sound crazy, and I know I'm probably going to get slapped, or worse. I could be way off base here. Really, this might be totally insane but I have to ask for the sake of someone I kind of really care about, and I, well, do you think it's maybe possible that your grandfather could be, or was, involved in something illegal?”

Allison's eyes got wide.

“That isn't at all what I thought you were going to say.”

“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry,” Stiles started to backpedal. “I just happened to hear a conversation—accidentally!―between your dad and your grandfather, and I grew up with a cop. I'm naturally suspicious.”

Allison's mouth was still slightly agape, but something in her eyes went hard and still, and that's when Stiles knew that all his paranoia wasn't unfounded.

“Well, now that you mention it, I don’t really know my grandfather all that well. He and my dad used to be close, but they had a falling out years ago. It was only recently that they started talking again, and my dad sort of discouraged me from spending time with him. I know he's always been sort of secretive about everything having to do with his team. I thought it was just because he's competitive with my dad, but my dad is so open with him, I don't think that's it.”

“Really, this is just a suspicion, but I think it might have something to do with your aunt Kate and the steroid scandal that went down right before she, you know. I know she wasn't charged with anything, but I don't think anyone really believes that none of those players were doping.”

Allison paled. 

“Stiles, I-”

“Look, I have no idea about any of this, it's just all really suspicious. She worked as the team doctor for a bunch of 'roid users, including Peter Hale, who was one of the suspected users. Your aunt dies and it's ruled an accident, but both your father and Peter's nephew think he in fact murdered her. I just can't stop wondering why he isn't in prison for it.”

By the look on Allison's face, Stiles was pretty sure she thought Peter killed her aunt too.

“Stiles, if what you are implying is true, this is huge. This is a serious, serious crime that you think my grandfather is involved in. This is my family's legacy. We have to be sure.”

So Stiles put his faith in Scott's ability to judge character and took a leap, telling Allison about the conversation he overheard.

“But Derek agreed to the clause. Dad said he was doing him a huge favor by taking a chance on him.”

“Look, I only know what I've observed, and yeah, Derek's grumpy but the only 'chance' Chris was taking was on Derek's knee injury.” Stiles really didn't want to get into the way he had been cataloging Derek's behavior from an intimate position. “Anyway, I don't think that has anything to do with this, really. I don't think your dad even knows what happened with the steroid scandal, because Gerard is definitely keeping something from him. I just need some kind of evidence. I need to know what it is that Gerard is hiding about what happened with Kate and Peter.”

Allison chewed on her lip, thinking. “You know, there's a safe in dad's office, but I've never seen dad use it, only grandpa.”

“Why on earth would he have a safe in your dad's office?”

“Maybe because it was too risky to keep things in his own office.”

“Of course! That's why they pay you the big bucks.” He put out his fist for a fistbump, but Allison stared at him blankly. “Right. Well, can you open it?”

“I don't have the combination, but I have a feeling I could guess it. It's four digits. It has to be someone's birthday.”

“Yes! That would be amazing, Allison. This could finally give us some answers or even evidence. Are you prepared for this? If we get something that could implicate your grandfather, he could be arrested, maybe put in jail. Are you okay with this?”

Allison nodded. “If he was involved at all in the steroid scandal, he should be punished. It's cheating. It's dangerous for the players. It's tarnishing the game.” 

“Okay. I just wanted to be sure.”

Allison reached out and put her hand on Stiles' arm and quietly asked, “Do you really think my dad doesn't know what is going on?”

“I don't know.”

“He's my _dad_ , Stiles.”

“I'll see what I can find out.”

So Stiles agreed to see if he could find any dirt on Chris, and Allison agreed to try to open the safe.

The problem was that you couldn't Google “is Chris Argent a douchebag?” and get any helpful results, so Stiles started trying to bring the owner up in conversation with the other players, with the groundskeepers, he even asked one of the regular umpires. 

By all accounts, Chris was a fair, rule-abiding guy. It was actually Jackson who brought up Chris's relationship with Derek.

“That's why it's so weird how hard he rides Hale. Hale is freakishly square. He never even goes to strip clubs with us because they're 'degrading'.”

“Do you think he always has been that way?” Stiles asked.

“What are you implying?”

“Nothing, nothing. I'm just wondering why Chris Argent would be keeping such a close eye on such a straight-laced guy.”

Jackson shrugged. “It's got to be personal. Hey, you're the only one Hale doesn't glare at, why are you asking me?”

“I was just asking about Chris.”

“What's going on, Stilinski?”

“I don't know yet. But I'm going to find out,” Stiles said, leaving Jackson with a puzzled expression on his face. 

As far as Stiles could tell, the only thing Chris Argent was guilty of, other than being angry at Derek, was having a crook for a father. He was secretly hoping that he would have found something, but for Allison's sake, he knew it was better he didn't.

Stiles met up with Allison for dinner later in the week so they could share their findings. As they entered the restaurant, they ran into Erica and Boyd waiting for a take out order. 

“Hey, Stiles!” Erica called to him with a grin “And... Allison Argent?”

“Don't look so surprised!” Stiles said with a huff. “What. You think I can't score a chick like Allison?”

Three sets of skeptical eyes stared at Stiles. 

“I'm a little worried you think I'm a man in drag now,” Allison said drily.

“Hey, I didn't even tell you I was gay!”

“You're not exactly subtle with the way you eyefuck Derek Hale. You're lucky your teammates aren't the sharpest tools in the shed.”

“Hey!” Boyd interjected.

“Excluding the catchers, of course,” Allison said with an apologetic grin.

“Nah, I never suspected Stilinski either. I think everyone eyefucks Derek Hale. I caught Greenberg staring at him once, and he's into some fucked up shit, but not with other dudes.”

“At some point either you or Isaac are going to have to tell me.”

Boyd visibly shuddered.

“What are the two of you doing here anyway?” Erica demanded.

“Well,” Stiles started frantically trying to decide what he could say to Erica and Boyd. “To be honest, I overheard a conversation between Chris and his father about the steroid allegations, and I was asking Allison for some background information on it. Just so I can keep my eyes open. It was never really an issue in double-A ball, and we had frequent and mandatory drug tests in college. Actually, Boyd, have you ever heard anyone talk about it?”

“I've heard stories about Gerard. A guy I played with in Louisville used to play for the Phillies. Everyone knew that they doped, they probably still do, but no one says anything. There was a rumor a couple years ago about a rat, but obviously nothing came out of it.”

“How did all of this stay out of the papers?” Stiles mused.

“Grandpa owns stock in a lot of media companies.”

“That would explain it.”

Once Erica and Boyd's order was ready and they said their goodbyes, Stiles and Allison finally let the waitress take them to a table. Stiles wasn't even seated before he blurted out his question. 

“So? I can't take the suspense anymore. Did you open the safe?”

Allison nodded, and then pulled a small stack of manila folders out of her giant purse.

“Did you look at any of it?”

“Only enough to see if it was worth taking. I was waiting for you.”

Inside the first folder were medical reports, all belonging to the players who Stiles knew were on the suspected users list, including Peter Hale. Attached to every report was a handwritten list of dates and what had to have been dosages. 

In another the folder was a pile of newspaper clippings about the steroid scandal. Some of them had underlining on them, and when Stiles took a closer look, he realized that all the underlining was about Kate Argent. Attached to the clippings was a letter, written in an old-fashioned script—different from the notes on the medical records—addressed to a name Stiles didn't recognize. But when Stiles skimmed through the letter, it was clearly to some media giant, because Gerard was requesting that Kate Argent not be included in their reports. Thank goodness the old man hadn't gone digital. That confirmed it. She'd had something to do with the doping.

There was nothing about Kate's death, however, but there was enough to draw a lot of red flags.

“Why are criminals always dumb enough to leave evidence?” Stiles whispered.

“Well, in my grandfather's case, the only thing I can think of is that he probably had blackmail in mind. Just in case someone grew a conscience.” 

Stiles slammed his hand down on the table. 

“That's it! I bet Kate was going to come clean.”

“Stiles,” Allison hissed, tilting her head outward toward the restaurant. Some of their fellow patrons were staring at him after the outburst.

“But you know I'm right,” he whispered.

“That would make sense actually. I know she and grandpa weren't on speaking terms near the end.” She paused. “Stiles?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you think this is enough to warrant an arrest? We're filling in a lot of blanks here. That's definitely Kate's handwriting on the medical records, but she can't exactly own up to it. I'm thinking we might need to get a confession from him.”

“I think I know what to do,” Stiles said. 

For the rest of dinner, they hatched a plan. 

When he got home that night, he called Lydia.

“How's my favorite agent?”

“What do you want, Stiles?”

“I'm hurt you think I'm only calling you because you think I want something.”

“If this was a social call, you'd call me 'Lyds.' And then I'd yell at you for it.”

“Even though you secretly like it.”

“So you say.”

“Well, I actually do have a question for you. Suppose you wanted to get a confession on tape, of someone admitting to a crime, such that it was permissible in a court of law...”

“What are you involved in, Stiles Stilinski?”

“It's nothing dangerous, I swear. It's just your average white collar crime, steroids, a cover up, murder—”

“Murder?! Promise me right now you will go to the police, Stiles. I know your dad is a cop, and you watch a lot of crime dramas, but if you are actually trying to implicate someone, you need the police involved. Otherwise, you're bound to screw it up.”

“Aw, you don't want me to get in trouble.”

“Are you kidding me? Do you have any idea how much I charge by the hour? I'd make a mint off you if you got arrested.”

“Love you, too, Lyds.”

Stiles' second phone call was to his dad. 

“Hey, dad! What's shakin'?”

“What do you want, son?”

“What is it with people today and thinking I want something from them?”

“Because you never call me when you know I'm at the station.”

“Oh shi- er, oops. Sorry, I wasn't even thinking.”

“Which is why I know you want something.”

“How did you know it wasn't an emergency or something?”

“I would hope that if you were in a real emergency, you would know to dial 911 and not your father who is 3000 miles away from you.”

“You're really big on the know-it-all cop schtick tonight.”

“I'm asking again. What do you want, son?”

“Fine. Do you happen to know any cops on the Buffalo police force?”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing! Nothing! I swear. It's just... there's some shit happening here and we're up against a pretty powerful guy and I wanted a cop I could trust. One who wouldn't be easily bribed or intimidated.”

“What's going on?”

“I promise I'll tell you everything when it all goes down. But I'm being responsible and I'm going to the authorities, instead of doing something ridiculous like that time I thought someone was stealing from my locker and I tried to booby trap it.”

“You set Scott's hair on fire.”

“He shouldn't have been stealing my candy!”

“Actually, a good friend of mine down in San Pedro is on the force, his brother is Buffalo PD. Let me make a few calls.”

“You're the best, dad!”

“Stiles, be careful.”

“I always am.”

Stiles hung up before he could hear his dad scoff. 

For the last part of the plan, he called Scott. 

“Hey Scott!”

“Hey, man. What's up?”

“Finally!”

“Huh?”

“Listen, I'm going to need your help on something.”

“Sure, what is it?”

“How would you feeling about coming up to Buffalo this weekend?”

“Well, I might be able to swing it.”

“It's just that Allison was talking about how much she missed you, and—”

“Oh yeah? She said that? I'll make it happen.”

Stiles felt a little guilty for dangling Allison in front of Scott like bait, but it was also for Allison's sake that they wanted his help. 

Of course, Scott was slightly less amenable when he arrived in Buffalo only to find Stiles and Allison waiting for him with a set of golf clubs and a tee time with Chris. 

“I can't believe I'm helping you do this. I get a day off and all I wanted was to see my girlfriend and my best friend, because I thought they were hanging out with each other for my sake.”

“We have been! It turns out we have a shared interest in revenge. And hey! Now you get both of us! Isn't this fun?”

“I don't understand why you need me to play golf. I hate golf.”

“You need to keep Chris out of the way. We don't want him involved in this.”

“What am I supposed to tell him?”

Stiles clamped his hand down on Scott's shoulder. “I don't know, maybe you want to get to know your girlfriend's father better, and you knew he was a golfer? We just need to make sure he isn't going to be anywhere near his office for a couple hours or that Gerard is going to be in town.”

“I'm still not sure I understand why.”

“Look, babe,” Allison said. “We just have to lure my grandpa to the office to get him to confess. We'll fill you in on the details later.”

“Speaking of which, how is 'Operation: Lure Creepy Grandpa' going?” 

“On schedule. I told him that dad asked about the safe and was acting weird. When he asked me if I thought it had been opened, I told him I couldn't tell. He's meeting me there in two hours. We'd better go to the police station, Stiles.”

“Police station?!” Scott exclaimed. “This sounds dangerous. Are you sure you wouldn't rather have me come with you?”

“Oh don't get all alpha male on me. I can take care of myself.”

“And don't worry, Scott. I have Allison to protect me in case things get rough.”

Scott was still attempting a stern face, but when the corner of his mouth twitched, Stiles knew they had won. 

The parking lot was deserted except for Gerard's SUV when they arrived in the unmarked police car. Stiles tried to stay calm as they entered the building, but his heart was racing so hard it was reminiscent of his ADHD years. Thanks to his dad's friend on the police force, they were both wearing wires, and that somehow made it seem like what they were doing was more dangerous than it was. But Allison seemed cool as a cucumber, so Stiles tried his best to act cool, too. 

Allison tensed as they approached the office. Sure enough, the light was on. Gerard must have gotten there early. Allison had wanted to go in alone at first, but Stiles just couldn't stay on the sidelines, so he followed her into the room.

The safe, hidden behind a painting behind Chris's desk like a terrible cliché, was wide open, and Gerard was frantically looking through the decoy papers.

“There's something I never understood, grandpa,” Allison said loudly, skipping all niceties, and causing Gerard to spin around. “You always told me Aunt Kate was an expert shot because she grew up hunting. She was too experienced to get in a hunting accident.”

Gerard's eyes were wild, matching the frenzy of his search. “I wouldn't go poking around in the past where it doesn't belong.”

“Oh, you might be able to control dad,” Allison said, stalking forward. “But you can't intimidate me. What are you going to do, have Peter Hale kill me too?”

Gerard's face went white as a sheet, but then quickly to red as his countenance filled with rage. 

“You can't prove that.”

He started digging through the papers on Chris's desk. Then his head snapped up.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, seeming to notice Stiles for the first time.

“People like to think circumstantial evidence is weak, but it holds up just as well in a court of law. If you have enough pieces of corroborating evidence, it's enough to draw an inference beyond a reasonable doubt. You wouldn't be here if you didn't think that evidence existed. Well, and Peter confessed. That always helps.”

It was a complete and utter lie, but he was hoping that Derek's standing up to Chris had left some doubt in Gerard's mind. It seemed to be working as Gerard's face grew redder and redder and his eyes comically wide.

“She was going to ruin me, us, the Argent name. I thought she was bluffing, because she would have been implicated too, but then I found out she had struck a deal with the prosecution. They tried for months to wear her down and she was going to tell them everything. She had to be silenced!”

“Why didn't you just have Peter killed too?” Stiles spat the question out. 

“He was my star first baseman!”

“It's always about money for you, isn't it?” Allison shouted back. “Having a money-making franchise is more important than your players, their health, and your own family. You're a monster!”

That's when Gerard started rummaging through Chris's desk, making a triumphant noise as he pulled a handgun out from one of the drawers, and pointing it straight at Stiles.

“You say anything else and your friend here is going to get a bullet right between the eyes.”

He stalked closer to Stiles, releasing the safety on the gun. Stiles flinched. Horror was etched all over Allison's face at watching her grandfather turn into the monster he was.

“Or maybe I should shoot him in the mouth. I hear he talks too much.”

It was then that Stiles heard two of the sweetest words in the English language.

“Freeze, police.”

The logistics of the arrest seemed to take forever. Stiles and Allison were taken back to the station, where they had to give statements. They were waiting for Scott and Chris to show up when Stiles started laughing hysterically.

“I thought he was going to shake his fist and say 'I would have gotten away with it if it weren't for you meddling kids'.”

Allison let out a burst of laughter and collapsed into giggles. But then she sobered up suddenly and sat up straight. 

“I was always afraid of him. I guess my instincts were right.” Allison looked shaken as the reality of the situation finally sunk in.

Of course, it was at that moment Chris and Scott showed up. Both men rushed toward her, taking turns pulling her into hugs, asking her if everything was okay. 

“Yeah, yeah, thanks for the concern,” Stiles finally said.

Scott rushed over to Stiles and pulled him into a bro hug. Even Chris extended his hand for a shake. There seemed to be something different about Chris, like the tension he always carried with him had been released.

“Come on, Stiles,” Allison said. “We're going to dinner if you'd like to come.”

“Actually, I have somewhere to be,” Stiles said, almost surprised the words were coming out of his mouth.

Scott's quizzical look was enough to inform Stiles that he would have to fill him in later, and Stiles was hoping he would have dirty details to make him squirm. 

Stiles drove over to Derek's place, practically buzzing out of his skin when he knocked on Derek's door. 

“Hey.” Derek sounded surprised, but not unhappy.

“Hi.”

“What happened, Stiles? You look like you've been through the ringer.”

“Not now,” Stiles said and lunged forward for a kiss. 

He didn't know if it was the adrenaline from getting Gerard's confession and having a gun pointed at his forehead, or if it was the sight of Derek in nothing but a pair of tight black boxer-briefs, but he wanted Derek more than anything in the world right then, and nothing was going to stop him.

He didn't let up as his hands roamed over Derek's chest and around his back, scratching his nails lightly into Derek's skin, backing them up until they tumbled over the back of Derek's couch. 

“Stiles.”

“Please, please, I just, fuck. I want you. All of you. I don't care about any of your baggage or your career or your knee. Let me. Please just let me.” 

“Okay, yeah,” Derek said with a breathy gasp, before he started tugging at Stiles' clothes.

They didn't make it beyond the couch. Stiles wasn't sure why Derek had lube on the coffee table, but he didn't need to know what Derek did on his own time. Once he was seated on Derek's cock, he finally gave pause. It was too soon, his body wasn't quite ready, but he just needed to feel Derek inside him. He rested his head on Derek's shoulder, inhaling deeply, as Derek slid his hands down Stiles' back, resting them on Stiles hips, waiting for Stiles to move. When Stiles did start moving, it was hard and slow, a smoldering heat burning between them. He knew Derek was broken and had grown cold on the inside, but Stiles wanted to prove to him that he could warm him up, maybe not make him whole, but at least fill a hole. 

Stiles slipped out of bed the next morning and tiptoed outside to snag the newspaper from the neighbor's front door. When he opened it, he wasn't surprised that on the front page was the story of Gerard Argent's arrest and a warrant out for Peter Hale.

He went back into the bedroom where Derek was starting to wake up, reaching his hand out and frowning when he didn't feel Stiles beside him. Stiles melted a little at the gesture. He crawled up the bed, the shift in weight made Derek open his eyes. He grinned when he saw Stiles, either because he was still there or because Derek was definitely a morning sex person. 

Stiles slapped the newspaper on his chest.

“Happy Birthday, Derek,” he said, tapping on the newspaper for emphasis.

“Huh? What?” Derek blearily sat up. “How did you know it was my birthday?”

“I had a poster of you on my wall in high school. I think you underestimate my fanboy prowess.”

“What is this?” Derek was staring down at the newspaper headline in confusion.

“Gerard had his own daughter killed, Derek. It wasn't your fault. He was a monster. Kate was doping players. It was going to end badly anyway. Even Chris didn't know about it. He blamed you because Gerard let him.”

“You took down Gerard Argent.”

“Yes.”

“And you did this for me?”

“Well, yeah, and for the sake of truth and justice and all that shit, too. And I'm sorry about your uncle.”

“He committed a crime.”

“And I know you feel like you don't have any family and you don't know what to do because of your knee, but if you don't mind company while you figure out, well, I'm offering my services. I know I'm a little hard to take sometimes and my energy is a little overwhelming. I've also been told that I talk a lot, but it's good to know your faults, you know? I can keep it check, I really can if-”

“Stiles.”

“What?”

“I'm kind of falling in love with you, you idiot.”

“Oh.”

 

**Epilogue**

_In the end, it was just one win. One inning of relief pitching after the Mets' starter had beaned one too many batters._

_Chris Argent had pulled some strings to get Derek a one-day contract, sort of as a mea culpa for blaming him for the crimes of both their family members._

_Derek wasn't even off the field before he had his arms full of Stiles. The hug was as platonic as he could muster in front of a stadium full of people, but when Derek reached to grab Stiles hand after he pulled away, well, if that's what people remembered about Derek Hale's career, not the strike outs or the wins or the ERA, it solidified him as Stiles Stilinski's favorite ball player of all time anyway._

_And if a few of the more gauche newspapers in the country, made a pitcher-catcher headlines, well, Stiles collected them, framed them, and gave them to Derek for his next birthday._

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [(Podfic of) Extra Innings by Tuesdaymidnight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4656159) by [chemm80](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chemm80/pseuds/chemm80)




End file.
